The Last of Romantics
by Unfading
Summary: 1944 is not the best year for Grindelwald and his supporters. Little do they know that the chain of events leading to their ultimate demise was started long ago… and it involves an eccentric transfiguration professor and a 'nonexistent' Heir of Slytherin.
1. The Dead Season

**The Last of Romantics**

_Genre_: General/Suspense

_Rating_: PG (K+), may grow up to PG-13 (T) in later chapters (for references to torture and violence as well as for in-depth description of some characters' questionable moral values)

_Summary_: 1944 is not the best year for Grindelwald and his supporters. Little do they know that the chain of events leading to their ultimate demise was started long ago… and it involves an eccentric transfiguration professor and a supposedly non-existent Heir of Slytherin.

_Disclaimer:_ standard.

_A/N_: This is my first attempt to write a big non-MS fanfic. I decided to translate it into English 'as is', despite the fact it is still a WIP. My apologies for mistakes.

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**__**Chapter 1. The Dead Season**_

_October 1944, Bernese Alps, Jungfrau Region. _

A traveler ascending to the Vertigo Pass from the north-western direction had a perfect possibility to feast his eyes upon the particularly beautiful view of the Schwarze Lutschine valley and of mountain city of Grindelwald lying by the river-head. The lower part of the valley was covered with coniferous woods; they appeared from a distance as a gloomy, lowering cloud of dark-green; above them ran the alpine meadows with their soft silky grass, alternating with islets of rust-colored dwarfish pines; still above there were stones and naked cliffs with glacier spots here and there; and, finally, above all that magnificence the mountains themselves were towering. There was a good chance to find among the many peaks of the mountain ridge three the most known ones, which have been sung up in legends, – Jungfrau, Eiger and Monch.

To say the truth, today this mountain trinity doesn't seem to the valley dwellers so frightening and inaccessible as it was long time ago, when all the legends that brought glory to it were made up. A technological progress, having already reached this place, has conquered the ancient fear of destructive forces of nature. Since the last part of the railway that connected Eismeer station to the Jungfrau foot was finished, the White Maiden, constantly under siege of eager-to-get-higher tourists, bade farewell to her romantic glamour.

Stories about evil mountain spirits, residing in the fick of the glaciers, and about lost wanderers, fallen into their icy web, were still popular among the locals, especially when there was a need to tell a bed-time tale to a child or to boggle a mind of some touring folklore gatherer. A time of mysterious and terrifying forces has passed irrevocably; they exhaled like a breath of wind, like an icicle in hot flames of the fireplace; without a trace or a memory; and the particularly progressive skeptics even began to ask themselves if those forces existed at all.

Nevertheless, despite the profound reasoning of technological progress supporters, 'mysterious and terrifying forces' did not even think of the retreat. Their presence was not so evident by now, indeed, - but it mattered a little. As before, they wielded power over this place completely. One needed only to go behind the Vertigo Pass in order to see it with his own eyes.

The Vertigo Pass, or rather a mountain valley behind it, was quite an interesting place, well-known in particular circles. Not long ago it was possibly to meet there visitors from all over the Europe and even all over the world, and the animation reigned in that place could easily compete with fuss and ado of the resort city of Grindelwald down there. But neither in the 'better times' that had passed, nor today, when 'the dead season' came - you would not find this place on the map; it was thoroughly concealed from the eyes of the profaners; and its glory – it was a secret glory, known only for a select few.

_Trentius Wald_

At Christmas time in the castle of Trentius Wald a rather small but an extremely refined society had been gathered. Baron Trentius was a rich man and thus could easily afford to hold a far more splendour gaudi, and yet he restrained from doing so – due to considerations most clear. Perhaps, Ivonne, Baron's current spouse, was slightly disappointed, but he did not worry much about that. Present time was completely inappropriate for entertainment and gaiety or to connivance of women's silly ideas. Besides, baron was not so young, and noisy crowds of half-known or even unknown visitors, who were loafing about his castle, started to annoy him. He was looking right inside their hearts: dwellers of so-called 'high society', arrogant issues of noble families from all over the Europe, who were pretending to be 'victims of persecutions and oppressions' but in reality no more that simple cowards; all those hapless prophets, cheep actors and charlatans… After the death of Aurora, his second wife, he turned them all out; he swept them out like useless litter.

Ivonne was disappointed. Young baroness Wald, of course, pictured herself a completely different way of living, when she was united in matrimony with Trentius Wald, an elder brother of none other than Heinricus Wald, who had been known to all Wizarding World under the name of Grindelwald. But there was nothing to be done, and his sweet Ivonne will keep down her appetite. Her motives was as clear to Trentius as the motives of all those 'carrion-crows', of which he had already managed to free himself.

In a few minutes he had to greet his guests who were invited to the castle for Halloween, and having this in mind, Trentius, vested in rather pompous formal robe, was heading for Dining Hall. He strode through seemingly never-ending suite of rooms, equally luxurious, empty and dusty, which separated his chambers from the Hall, and at last arrived to big folding doors – the vague but recognizable murmur of reception was already heard behind them. Trentius waited for a moment and put on his traditional smile of slightly absent-minded, but impeccably polite host and then entered the brightly lit hall.

'Ah, our dear baron!' Mincing comically and slightly limping, Frau Octavia Eisgrotte approached.

How old is she? Well over eighty; wrinkles and flabby cheeks could no more be concealed with charms. An old hag. What's the need for her childish frills?

'You look splendid, as always,' he said, accepting her hand gallantly. Civility, just plain civility. How much time should be wasted on it, and there is no chance to be spared.

He was searching the hall with his eyes till he found Gualando Eisgrotte and nodded almost imperceptibly. Eisgrotte answered him with obscure half-smile, very meaningful but signifying nothing; he was busy – along with Jurgen Glass, he was talking with a young stranger, who was dressed in plain black robes, utterly inappropriate for the occasion. Trentius did not know this youth and frowned, trying to recollect; oh, yes, Glass had been saying something about 'very interesting man' a fortnight ago. They were going to invite him on the week after the Halloween, but, probably, they did not have much time if Glass had brought him here as early as today.

They did not have much time indeed.

Trentius closed his eyes for a moment and suddenly saw them all as if from the outside: small porcelain figures like in mechanical clock; very neat, shiny with bright colors and gilt, so magically-beautiful. For now they are happy and joyful; they are dancing under the sounds of light festive music; their movements are sharp and graceful; but the winding mechanism is almost stopped, and soon it will fully stop…

Frozen, lifeless picture.

Trentius shook up his head and restored his slightly faded smile. The evening had just begun, and he had many things to do.

_Jurgen Glass_

What baron Wald might only have guessed, Jurgen Glass knew for sure. He could easily count all the time remained for them - to second - had he a slightest wish to do so. The end was indeed approaching. Everything has its breaking point: a piece of metal, a man, even the whole nation. All is interrelated, and the weakness of a single small screw results in demolishing of the entire complex mechanism, carefully built and thoroughly established. 'This is just a fluke', waved away Gualando Eisgrote the day they learned about what had happened in Muggle Germany, fifteen years ago. Trentius Wald was silent, as always; and Felsen, a sly fox, knew from the very beginning what it would result in. 'This is _the politics_, my friend', said Felsen a month after, when all of them understood that that was by no means an accident and when it was, to say the truth, already too late.

He didn't like the politicians. But he was able to be on good terms with them.

And now all of them came to him; crawling like coward dogs. They believed his studies to be a complete waste of time, a useless oddity, a whim; only he himself knew how this all is important for Grindelwald. This 'whim' was an axis, a base, upon which everything was built; all their power, all their crowds; even their terrible, useless fame. All of those would not come into life if there had not been the Idea that had brought these dissolved parts of other's dreams and ambitions together, fasten them like cement, and created from all these petty wishes and intrigues a colossal, unconquerable might.

An idiotic theory? A delirious idea? Just a dream? Maybe. But the dream that can be made true; that is what was important. If not for this 'stupid childish tale', there would be nothing. Now - they are what they are; no more, no less. But if they stop now, if they not turn this tale into truth and dream – into reality, they will become nothing again; and their tedious existence before the beginning of all this ado will seem to them a heavenly pleasure compared to the fate which is waiting for them otherwise.

'And for how long, Mr. Potter, have you been interested in Unforgivables?'

'For about a year; I've studied only energetic aspects, as you understand.'

Just a boy; he is hardly twenty. Romantics and the lust for power, all they are starting from that.

'An interesting hobby, but unpractical,' maybe, the voice of Dr. Glass was too cold, but he was not going to soften it; let these arrogant British know that even 'geniuses' like them are not welcomed here with outstretched arms.

'For now – yes; but it holds much promise. If we find the way to store the energetic imprints, these exercises will surely come in handy.'

Andrew Potter, a young genius from the hostile British Islands. There was no one among them who has mastered a mathematical magic to this level; Glass understood this immediately, though he had chance to look through Potter's works only briefly. But in the field of magic energy storing they achieved much more than anyone can expect. Too early to tell him about that, though.

However, there is no need to fool himself; in any case, he had to tell him sooner or later. This Potter had been under observation fro two month already; Glass knew that Eisgrotte never broke the procedure. He seemed to be lucky: he is really the person he claimed to be. Well, why not. Not every single one is a spy, after all. Now – the final stage of the testing, his visit there. But everything was clear already; Glass needed only ten minutes to verify that the boy had indeed written all these works; but Eisgrott for some reason showed a desire to talk with him himself.

Let him try, our 'gallant Gualando'. Glass knowingly was choosing for the talk the most boring theoretical topics. Eisgrotte was trying to conceal his irrelevance and ignorance behind wide smiles and dubious jokes, but – and Glass knew it – felt himself quite out of place. Well, it serves him right. Glass nodded and with his best serious look asked Potter about one of the most puzzling formula from his last work; there was no need for the question, of course, but it sounded truly impressive – there were 'matricat matrixes', and 'inverse Shklovski magic coefficient', and even 'M-field vector' . Potter raised his eyebrows perplexedly, probably being surprised by the unnecessariness of the question, but nevertheless began to answer. He gave very detailed explanations, but at the same time they were not superfluous, so that Glass found himself to be indeed interested; then he ask another question, this time real, not 'for show', and after that the discussion came into complete scientific maze; and it was so pity that they could not get into the Laboratories immediately – some thoughts were so interesting that he was eager to check them right away…

A half an hour after, more than satisfied with the results of the discussion and definitely determined to involve this promising newcomer into the project as soon as possible, Glass suddenly noticed that Eisgrotte was not with them for some time already. When and where he left, he paid no attention, and had no intention to inquire.

_Gualando Eisgrotte_

This strutter know-all Glass continued to wag his tongue; he must be showing off before this weedy Potter-wunderkind, or vise versa, it is Potter who were showing, whatever. He was forgotten at once, and, should he say, wrongly. If it was not for Gualando Eisgrotte, where all they were for now? Department of Control would have checked this British for none less than a six months, and after that he should be assigned to live in some of New Outlining Territories for a couple of years before any job of slightest of importance could be allowed for him; and as to Grindelwald Laboratories – it was impossible even to dream about them… Yes, it should have been exactly as he said. And what did you think, Mr. Potter? That we have here a safe heaven for refugees? 'Come unto me all who are weary and burdened…'

'Good evening, my young friend!'

Tristan Wald flashed his eyes and snorted, having ignored the greeting. Just look at him: Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. His daddy has paid heaps of money in order to bring on this soiree this French Ophelia. Lorrain Delacour would have never agreed if he, Gualando Eisgrotte, had not taken care of that. By the way, Trentius has disappointed him with this request: he himself would have never allowed his children to meddle with veelas. But there is nothing to be done; poor fellow was always too soft. Aurora had him turned about her little finger, doing whatever she wanted, and as times goes by, Ivonne will certainly inherit all her habits. It is strange that she was not interfering yet.

'Swee-etheart,' the oily voice of his other half, Octavia, woke him up from his thoughts.

'Yes, darling?'

'Ksenia wrote me that Baron Wald had invited none other than Lorrain Delacour here. Imagine, the 'Luminous Lorrain' in person! Is it true?'

'Well, I will not deny it.'

'And you said nothing!' the offence of the Octavia was strained since she knew extremely well about this visit for a week already. He said it himself, as though as a great secret.

'Guilty, guilty…'

By now this little family sketches were for no reason at all; he had to speak with Trentius before Klaas Felsen arrived. Potter was an unscheduled figure, at least for these few days, but, fortunately, Glass decided to take him out to the Laboratories tomorrow. It was very appropriate: the fewer ears the better.

'Baron! It's been ages!'

Only two days, but who knows.

'Greetings, my dear friend. Would you like a piece of apple pie?'

'Thank you, why not.'

Trentius turned away to the tray that was standing on the chimney piece, and Eisgrotte was able to see the reflection of his face in the large wall mirror.

'Tomorrow at ten', whispered baron silently.

Gualando smiled and took a proposed piece of apple cinnamon pie.

'You have an outstanding cook, my friend. I will order to steal the recipe of this tasty-thing from him. This two hundred a month on the intelligence we spent; what is it for, just for nothing?'

Wald jokingly made a threatening gesture:

'Ah, this is not so easy, dear Eisgrotte. Every man has his own little secret; no need to strip them out of this small pleasure. There are not many of them left… Are they?

There is a silent pause, and then Eisgrotte bursted out laughing with his famous contagious, choked laughter.

To be reputed as brainless cherry fellow is not so easy and mot so pleasant, but… it is paying off.

_Andrew Potter_

It was well into the night; all guests were already off to their bed-chambers and, without a doubt, were sleeping peacefully. Andy turned the lamp off, looked at dimly red firelights from the chimney which were dancing on the room walls, thought for a moment and muttered a spell to extinguish the chimney fire as well. Then he waited for a minute in order to get use to darkness, unfastened the tight collar of his jacked, stretched his arms several times and came to the window. Outside the castle a terrible snowstorm was roaring, and it was completely impossible to see anything. Nevertheless, a witness from the outside – if there had been any – would certainly think that Andy was looking for something.

He was lucky to have this room: its windows were looking north-west, precisely to the steep. Somewhere in that direction, as far as he knew, the famous Grindelwald Laboratories were situated, the very laboratories doctor Glass told him about this evening and those he had already been familiar by hearsay with.

The institution that doctor named with a dry scientific word 'Laboratories' was in reality a sort of small factory. All of them, Glass, Felsen, Eisgrotte, were people of quite practical sort, as he had seen with his own eyes today, so, such concept as 'pure science' was simply inexistent for them. Abstract academic research was thought to be a completely waste of time in their circle; they believed it to be just a plaything for idle loafers. Of course, they would never share their opinion in public, and he by no means could expect them to do it in the conversation with almost complete stranger – let even say, with rather suspicious stranger that he was. But this fact did not change anything; the information he had on these people was enough for him to picture their way of thinking.

Andrew Potter knew that to invent a super-weapon is not easy, but he believed that to use it efficiently was no less as important; and sometimes between these two stages there was an insurmountable gap. Specialists of this place have conquered this obstacle brilliantly, having not only brought a dream into reality, but established the mass production of their inventions. Their system worked efficiently and clear; the freshly created potion or charm were tested immediately (on experimental muggles as he had heard), and, if the outcome was satisfying for the authors, were assigned for mass using at once. All this was performed quickly, right off the bat, thorough - and at the same time without unnecessary pathetic element; so that in Andy's native land, in England, they simply failed to keep pace with Grindelwald's scientists in order to prepare countermeasures.

He saw the victims of the charms, composed in the Laboratories by Grindelwald's researches, and – oh, that was impressive. Very impressive, indeed. It was another argument in favor of the decision he had made: at all costs to get into this inner circle. He had to understand how all those things were possible, even if he had to become subject to the variety of stupid tests and verifications and to take serious risks. He ought to do it, he ought to get into the very heart to their stronghold - or, should he say, to the brain of it – it order to discover the secret of Grindelwald unseen magical power, the secret due to which they overrode the whole Europe, Muggle as well as Wizarding; the secret that could have granted the world domination for those who could use it; the secret which promised so much more than simple 'world domination'…

…Andy closed his eyes and evened his breath, disappointed at himself. He should not have allowed himself to dream about the past; it was useless, and it was distracting. Now he should concentrate again.

Having settled himself down, he came back to the watching and stood at the window for another two hours. But for all this time he failed to catch a single trace of magic using, despite all his phenomenal flair. To say the truth, it did not mean anything: he could be just too far from that place, and, aside from that, the Laboratories must have been well-protected.

Perhaps, even too well. Perfectly, he daresay. Dr. Glass had every reason to be proud of it.

Andy smiled. He knew that every defence, even the most perfect one, has its weak point.

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A/N: Thank you for reading. I will appreciate your reviews! 


	2. The Headmaster and the Professors

A/N: Second chapter is Dumbledore POV. Yes, the story is very slow in the beginning, so almost nothing happened yet... But Dumbledore need time and reason to become a super-hero.

Thank all who reviewed for comments and inspiration!

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**Chapter 2. The Headmaster and the Professors.**

_September 1943, Hogwarts._

Recently, Albus Dumbledore often happened to stay in his office long after work, sometimes way past midnight.

There were several reasons for that. First, in his experiments with dragon blood, after thousands vain attempts, a glimpse of light began to show; second, this year he was made a Head of Gryffindor house, and this position had added a many new chores; and third – that probably was the most significant reason - he had been suffering from insomnia.

This lasted for a couple of month already. Of course, none of his colleagues would have suspected that he, a prominent alchemist and quite a capable specialist in other fields of magic science, could fall a victim of such a trivial muggle decease as inability to sleep. Indeed, all that he needed to do was to consume small dose of Sleeping Tincture, or, if he preferred charms, to cast an easy Somnio spell upon himself – and then to enjoy a deep and profound sleep. He could even decorate it with a variety of pleasant dreams of his choice, had he wish to perform some additional efforts.

And yet, Albus Dumbledore refused to do anything of the mentioned, and not because his abilities on potion brewing or spell-casting were insufficient. The point was that that he considered such a direct fighting with the insomnia to be wrong and even to some extent dangerous. The sleep could not just vanish without the reason, he thought; and instead of stuffing himself with medicines, no matter magic or muggle ones, one should think seriously and try to find out what was the real cause of ailing.

So far Albus was undecided. Too many things had happened during several past months, both here in Hogwarts and in the Outer World. Maybe, he simply needed more time to get accustomed to the changes. He was not, although, completely honest to himself: he knew that there were some things that he never would be accustomed to, no matter how much time would pass. A week, a month, a year, or even a decade – the whole eternity may fly – but the war will always be what it is; an unnatural, insufferable, loathsome thing, utterly contradictive to human nature; and he would never become _used to_ its horrors, no matter how many reports 'from the spot' he would read or how many eyewitnesses of the events he would meet.

To say the truth, here, at Hogwarts, tension of the Outer World events was almost unnoticeable. The daily routine remained as it had always been, and the lessons were conducted duly as they should be. Of course, hardships of the war time were influencing Hogwarts life; for example, dinner menu was more than scarce, and the heating of the bedchambers was evidently insufficient – but in general this school year was passing just as any other. At least, that was what could be seen _prima facie_, brief and cursory.

Albus Dumbledore belonged to the select few inhabitants of Hogwarts castle who knew how deceiving this impression of general well-being was. On the contrary, he was almost sure that something definitely _was_ happening in the school. It was something very strange and not good. It might not be directly connected to the terrible war spreading all over Wizarding Europe, but nevertheless it could be – at least, for Hogwarts inhabitants – no less dangerous than this war. Or even more dangerous; for in the war your enemy was known and thus understandable, and there… There Albus Dumbledore had nothing but some vague and indefinable 'bad feelings'.

Sometimes he almost came to conclusion that these 'feelings' were not at all forerunners to some real threat; that they were just a figment of his imagination, exhausted with insomnia. And indeed, had there been something real behind them, he surely would not be the only one to notice, for Albus Dumbledore's colleagues, by no means greenhorns, were quite capable of finding and securing any possible danger.

All of his colleagues, by the way, were outstanding people.

Take, for example, Armando Dippet, Hogwarts Headmaster and an old friend of Albus'. They knew each other for more than sixty years, since Paracelsus Readings, and Albus considered himself to be obliged to Dippet. If not for Armando, Dumbledore's remarkable scientific career as an alchemist could have stopped without even starting, for all of those academics, hoary with age, just winced contemptuously while listening to Dumbledore's first timid reports, and Dippet alone came to his defense, giving Albus his support and encouragement. Moreover, Albus was thankful to his older friend for a couple of most practical and tactfully expressed advices on how to build his research efficiently and at the same time not to provoke all those conservators from science. Upon recovering his spirit, Albus continued his more than 'non-orthodox' experiments and, as time went by, had achieved a really prominent results; so that even the most dyed-in-the-wool conservatives began to exchange bows with him and call him 'our dearest colleague'.

Or to take Otto von Strommen, the Head of Slytherin and the Charms teacher, - he is without any doubt an outstanding person. Of course, Albus by no means did approve the teaching methods von Strommen used, considering them to be way too harsh and inhumane: there was not a single day without some sort of incident on Charms lesson that usually ended for an unfortunate student in Hospital Wing. Dumbledore believed these 'training attacks' von Strommen practiced to be more suitable for Defense against Dark Arts lessons, and he had a doubt that even there they would not be a way too much. Nevertheless, he could not deny that such system of teaching was in some sort very effective; at least as a compensation for Galatea Merrythought's too academic exercises. Moreover, Albus held professor von Strommen in high respect because he was nearly the first Head of Slytherin in recent history who did not share that shameful prejudice against muggleborn wizards, which was still common in the circles of so called 'magic aristocracy'. Two years ago at the annual meeting of the Hogwarts Patrons Committee, where Heads of the Houses were traditionally invited to, von Strommen very sharply put Sestim Silverspoon in his place when the latter started to express his indignation on the matter of 'filthy half-breeds being in noble Slytherin House'. Silverspoon was considered a person of great influence in Wizarding Britain, so it was very brave for von Strommen to object in such a manner; 'a pure Gryffindor braveness in its best… and its worst', as Horace Slughorn admitted to Albus afterwards.

Nicolai Dubinin, a former Head of Hufflepuff, was another example of extraordinary braveness. He was absent from Hogwarts this year; he decided to retire from teaching and joined one of the squads of battle mages fighting with Grindelwald forces. ...Now there were no members of Hogwarts staff left who could be made the head of Hufflepuff house. But, regardless of that fact, Albus thought that all of them, maybe, should do the same…

The rest of Hogwarts professors were also very decent people, even if not so prominent. In believing so, Dumbledore was basing mainly on his feeling rather than the real facts, but that did not matter.

Today, in chill and overcast day of the middle of September, all of these outstanding professors were scheduled to meet at the special School Board Council, unexpectedly announced by Dippet upon receiving some Ministry Directive of great importance.

Albus Dumbledore was going to be there beforehand; he needed to discuss with Dippet one question which had been bothering him for quite a long time. Unfortunately, he did not succeed and even was almost late because of the group of worried students from Gryffindor Quidditch team who had been keeping his attention till the very last moment. From some 'mysterious but most reliable' sources they inquired that this year Quidditch Cup was to be cancelled by the Ministry, and now they were begging for his support - for he was believed to be the only person who could persuade Headmaster Dippet to change this disastrous decision. Albus encouraged them by telling that the Ministry had not a slightest intention to restrict Quidditch, and only after that the students, slightly relieved, allowed him to go.

When Dumbledore entered Headmaster's office, he found there, besides Dippet, only Galatea Merrythought, Defense against Dark Arts teacher, who was the head of the Ravenclaw House. She must have come, as usual, twenty minutes before the appointed time, or even half an hour. Professor Merrythought extremely did not like to be in a hurry. Any time stress was a disaster for her. Due to that reason, she was always checking if she had plenty of time, and only then she felt comfortable enough. Being in the state of abovementioned 'comfort', she usually gained a dreamy and somewhat mysterious look; and now she looked just like that.

Dumbledore greeted Dippet and nodded socially to Merrythought, after what he took his seat, slightly surprised why there are only three of them. Where could be other staff members? Maybe, the meeting had been postponed, and he did not know it?

'All is correct? At three o'clock, I presume?' he asked Galatea.

'Yes, you are right,' she answered and threw a brief glance at her dress-watch. The watch was very elegant though a bit old-fashioned, as Madam Merrythought herself. 'We have two minutes left.'

'Hmm, thank you,' said Dumbledore vaguely and fell silent. It seemed that the meeting should take place as planned.

There was a soft sound of door opening, and then professor von Strommen appeared, straight like stuff. This man always was precisely in time; one may even check the watch. After a rather dry welcome von Strommen gave his colleagues, he sat at the other side of the table, just across Headmaster Dippet.

Dippet sighed and, having cleared his throat, said:

'Good evening again, colleagues, I believe it is time to start. Five more minutes, if you don't mind… We are still waiting for one person…Professor Slughorn, to be exact. Ah, here he is – good evening, Professor!'

'I thought only Heads of the Houses were invited,' von Strommen said with cold perplexity, watching as Slughorn was taking his seat. 'The Ministry Directive ordered just as that, didn't it?'

'That was what the Directive _recommended_; you are right,' answered Dippet gently, almost like apologizing; the only objection he had afforded himself was to stress slightly this 'recommended'.

Albus noticed the feeble smile at Slughorn's face, fading away on the instant. Everybody was aware that Slughorn and von Strommen had no special liking of each other. The principle cause for their mutual dislike was Slughorn's ambition to become Head of the Slytherin house - a position that he had every reason to claim to. To be honest, Dumbledore also believed Horace to be more suitable for this position than von Strommen was: despite the higher respect he had for the latter, he felt greater sympathy for the former.

Meanwhile, Dippet continued:

'All of you, dear colleagues, undoubtedly know about the last Ministry directive, as well as are aware of its contents,' he said. Nobody objected, and Madam Merrythought nodded. 'It is obvious that the fulfillment of the Ministry orders will require a complete reorganization of the entire teaching process, which is especially vital for the sixth and seventh grade students. Even those who have already chosen the theme for the graduation project should not be excluded. No one can deny that the matter we deal with is of a most complex and delicate nature. But we all understand why we are ought to do this, as well as are conscious of the sad circumstances that have made this decision necessary. Of course, the Ministry demands have not always been…' Dippet paused for a moment in search of appropriate word, 'well… adequate - but this is clearly not the case. I would like you to take into consideration the very nature of the problem, which is not so much academic as organizational one. We are dealing not with just changing of school subjects - we are dealing with _people_ here. That is why I need _your_ help at first place; I'm addressing you not as professors and staff members, I'm addressing you as the Heads of the Houses. The authority you had been given puts a great responsibility upon you, especially at the times like this. The influence you had upon your students is the important tool without which we can not succeed.'

But of course! That is why today there are only five of them including Dippet; Slughorn must have been invited because of his 'Slug Club' and the influence it has… or because of his Ministry connections? The rest of the staff should be informed afterwards; why Albus had not guessed it before? Now Dumbledore was looking at the purpose of the meeting differently and was rather satisfied with the opportunity to share his thoughts on the subject of Hogwarts' new role in the time of war – in fact, he had been thinking on it for a while. But before Dumbledore managed to formulate his opinion, von Strommen made a sign, asking for attention.

'I think there is nothing to talk about, because everything is clear. In present situation we simply have no choices to discuss,' as always, von Strommen's words were strict and harsh. 'I would like to forewarn you that some of my propositions may seem to you way too cruel or inhumane,' with this word he glanced briefly at Dumbledore. 'I do understand that as well as all of you do. And if I nevertheless propose to discuss them, it means that I truly believe them to be the most efficient measures in our situation.'

After that von Strommen stopped for a moment, giving his colleagues a possibility to think deeply on his latest statement. None of the professors made a move; everybody was listening to him in silence.

'Excellent,' von Strommen continued. 'The first we need to do is to perform a severe differentiation between all Hogwarts students basing on their magical capability and their usefulness for our goal. Here I mean _all the students_, not only the sixth and seventh grades. Very roughly, they could be divided on three groups. The biggest one will consist of all those who are completely worthless for us - I mean, not very promising in practical magic. They should be sent away from Hogwarts as soon as possible. Their education would be only waste of time and efforts. We simply can not afford that now. Next group, elder students of moderately good capabilities and some of the most promising juniors will form our reserve. Those should stay here and study under current rules; I think that minimal corrections to the curriculum will suffice. And, at last, the remaining group – the best students we have – the best we could offer for the needs of Resistance. I daresay it will consist of not more than fifteen or twenty students. They should be trained on a completely unique basis, in a way that has never been seen in Hogwarts history'.

When von Strommen's speech was over, Galatea Merrythought frowned and asked:

'What do you mean by this "unique training", professor von Strommen?'

'I was just about to explain, madam Merrythought,' said von Strommen, smiling coldly. 'First of all, of course, all lessons should be purely practical,' he stressed that practical. 'Martial arts, then general course of strategy and tactics, some topics from advanced Battle Charms; the classical Defense from the Dark Arts should be taught more strongly; well, and the Dark Arts themselves should also be considered...

At his last words Galatea Merrythought visibly shivered. Albus felt some discomfort as well.

'The Dark Arts?' Dippet repeated with discontent.

'Indeed,' von Strommen was not disarmed with the unfavorable impact his speech had on his colleagues. 'The mere fact of our existence is in danger now, and this is not appropriate time to play the fairy knights. We should understand clearly that we could never conquer our opponent if we remain in different planes of reality. Only equals can fight with each other. Thus, we should become a match for them. There is no other way.'

Was the matter in firm, metal notes of von Strommen's voice or in his unconquerable self-reliance, but Dumbledore suddenly imagined a large number of people in black and silver, embattled in columns and marching dashingly accompanied by sounds of some pompous battle song… He did not like the picture at all.

'Listen, dear professor, but even in more common branches of magic there are spells powerful enough, which are capable to stop any of the dark magic curses – with the obvious exclusion of Unforvigables… Am I not right, Headmaster?' inquired madam Merrythought, looking at her greatest authority, Dippet.

Armando did not answer at once; so von Strommen again took the initiative:

'That is correct, madam Merrythought. To stop them, they are undoubtedly capable. But this is not enough! If our goal is 'to stop them', we are doomed to fail. To stop them! This is a semidecision, cowardice, a simple stupidity. We should aim not to stop Grindelwald as you suggested. We should conquer him, overcome him, excel him – do you understand me? But if we instead restrict ourselves to just 'stopping', we are bound to the passive defense. You know that any defense could not last forever. Sooner or later, we will make a mistake – and this will be the end for us.'

'But they could make mistakes as well, professor,' commented Dippet peacefully.

'Yes, they could', von Strommen agreed. 'They already did in fact, several times. But what's from that? Their power is growing nevertheless. And it is growing because they are active, because they fight, because they choose the most effective measures in order to prevail, regardless of some abstract ethical problems, such as 'humanity of their actions'…

Albus wondered why von Strommen, speaking of 'humanity', looked directly at him. And why one should speak of this matter with such a disdainful grin?

'So, you suppose that we should become like them?' asked Dumbledore doubtfully, trying to make clear how much he did not like such kind of approach. Von Strommen turned to him quickly.

'Let me guess the final point of your argumentation, professor Dumbledore, and save a few minutes of your time. Were not you going to blame me for the thesis that "evil could be conquered only by evil", were you?' he squinted.

'But, wasn't that exactly your point?' asked madam Merrythought perplexedly.

'There is no such thing as 'pure evil', try to understand that at last!' von Strommen cried out violently. Albus even recoiled, frightened by this unexpected burst: he would have never suspected Otto von Strommen to be capable of passionate speeches of the kind. 'Could you tell me, what is it? Just stretch your finger and point out - Here Be Evil?'

'Well, we can point our fingers at Grindelwald,' said professor Slughorn with a thoughtful air, 'Why not to do it? We will be pointing at him - and he, therefore, at us… A perfect symmetry, don't you think?'

Von Strommed gave him a rather unpleasant look, but did not say anything. After a few moments of silence, he closed his eyes briefly and said as firmly and dispassionately as ever:

'I beg your pardon. I think I was carried away for a moment. May I continue?'

'Nothing to worry about, professor', answered Dippet wearily. 'Let's continue. But, as far as I notice, your colleagues already have a number of objections regarding your idea. I think it would be wise to hear them now before we go on… Who would like to comment on professor von Strommen proposal?'

'Let me, Headmaster', said Dumbledore and Merrythought at the same time and looked at each other – who will be the first to speak? Dumbledore gave that right to madam Galatea.

'In my humble opinion, dear colleague, with all the respect to you, the measures you propose are somewhat… excessive,' as always, when Galatea Merrythought worried, her speech became fanciful and abstruse almost beyond understanding. 'While considering the necessity of the decisions most harsh, we, at the same time, should not forget, that present Hogwarts students would have – and I rather say _will_ have – a normal, full life – if, of course, the named measures would not take away the very possibility of an existence of such a life,' she took her breath and continued, 'What I was just trying to say is that when we are protecting our "normal world" with the means supposed by you, professor, we by this very act already set this world for destruction – and, if I may stress it again, for destruction by our own hands!"

'May I ask you, what is the alternative you propose, madam Merrythought?' von Strommen inquired, noticeably annoyed with such a blurred style of talking.

'I believe that we could maintain the educational process in its present form,' said she cautiously. 'Maybe, we consider the possibility of adding some extra studies – for a few of the subjects you propose – but, of course, any direct Dark Arts references should be completely avoided. And, I daresay, the choice of specialization should be voluntary, as it is now; and this choice should not be based upon the 'student potential' – what a disgusting idea, by all means! What do you think, Headmaster?'

'Hm,' said Dippet, 'a well-thought opinion', and then fell silent again.

'This is not a solution,' said von Strommen icily and settled back in his chair. This "I wash my hands" posture, as Dumbledore supposed, was inclined to show an extra level of disagreement with such weak-willed drivellers.

Albus Dumbledore understood perfectly the reasons that persuaded professor von Strommen to propose such a project, and knew that despite the unbreakable confidence professor demonstrated the decision was not easy for him. At the same time, he did not think that turning Hogwarts into something Durmstrang-like is such a wonderful idea. Aside from that, Albus agreed that the weak alternative Madam Merrythough suggested could not help them in their present situation. Skills, required from Hogwarts graduates in order to made them useful for Resistance, could never be obtained with a help of typical academic training and extra subjects.

'I think that professor von Strommen is right…,' Albus said cautiously. 'Not in all the details, maybe, but in general… Yes… But you also have the point, madam Merrythought. That's why I propose a sort of compromise.'

Dumbledore stopped for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

'I would not like to touch the subject of initial differentiation between students – we discussed it many times before,' he adjusted his spectacles and continued. 'The main issue here is not of academic, but of ethic nature. What will happen to a child who will be marked as 'completely worthless' and thrown away? Nothing good, I daresay...' Albus noticed impatient gesture von Strommen made and decided to move on to concrete proposition. 'But enough of that. I propose namely the following: choose some most promising students, as you suggested, and work with each of them individually. Yes, individually, this is important. I believe that we all know both strengths and weaknesses of our pupils, and are capable of developing the former while smoothing over the latter. Our task is to do it in most delicate manner; any kind of compulsion should be excluded. You see, I am not an enemy of differentiation after all… I believe we should try to work in the beginning with a selected number of sixth and seventh year students – not more than fifteen, I agree with your estimation, professor von Strommen… Then we will see. What about the other students – I think there is no need to change their schedules at all… Or even tell them something special… Well, I understand that this kind of approach demands much from us as well as from our 'chosen ones,' he smiled, 'but in the end our alumni's chances to become really good specialists will be higher than if...'

Dumbledore concluded silently: '…than if we train a squad of demented killer-automats'. He would not dare to say that aloud – von Strommen would hardly like such kind of characterization, and Albus did not want to insult him.

'Well', the Head of Slytherin nodded pensively, 'This will create additional difficulty… but is acceptable. Indeed, in form of individual projects we can…' he did not finish the sentence, being absorbed in some sort of in-mind calculation.

'If we are talking about only few of the students… And they will agree voluntarily…,' agreed Madam Merrythought indecisively. 'And we need to decide exactly what should we say to them'.

Of course not that the Ministry obliged us to prepare a special squadron to fight Grindelwald, thought Dumbledore.

'But do we need to say anything unusual to them? To say the truth, this plan is not different from a professional specialization, which is common for elder students…' said von Strommen. 'All we should do is to make sure that the most _interesting_ students will choose the subjects we need them to choose…'

'I wonder if _I_ can help you with that', Horace Slughorn said with a polite smile. 'The connections I have within the student's community are rather informal and thus allow performing it in the way most natural.'

'Thank you for your noble proposal, professor, but I think that this is our task as the Heads of the Houses,' von Strommen answered coldly.

The ways Horace Strommen used to recruit his apprentices for advanced projects sometimes were not within borders of strict Hogwarts rules. He was even blamed by some of his colleagues for the so-called 'Slug Club' he founded - 'not the best example of Hogwarts professor behavior', they said. Dumbledore believed that they were simply jealous. Albus was a bit jealous himself, to say the truth. That's why he was rather amused when von Strommen could not helped saying:

'I don't think that it will be a problem for you, professor Slughorn.'

'I beg your pardon, colleague?'

'I suppose that I'm not the only one who noticed that you are ready to do everything in order to make our most prominent students specialize in your subject.'

Slughorn smiled:

'One may do that, dear colleague, one may. Besides, I never make anybody agree by force. Any member of the staff is trying to do the same.'

'But of course!' muttered von Strommen.

'Colleagues, in order to prevent us from possible misunderstandings, I propose to decide on the project themes and their appropriate executors together,' said Dumbledore, trying to prevent the next argue of these two eternal opponents.

'If you like,' said von Strommen. 'I think we could be prepared by the next week… Do you agree, Headmaster Dippet?

Dippet roused himself, as if coming to his senses after long and distressing thoughts. Dumbledore noted suddenly that the good old Dippet looked much worse lately. Even today, on a very important meeting, he was almost silent and did not make a slightest effort in order to guide the discussion.

Nevertheless, they came to an agreement surprisingly fast today, and all that Armando had to do was to summarize:

'Well, dear colleagues. I am glad to see that we came to an agreement. I propose to meet again the next Monday and discuss themes of the projects in detail as well as assign them to the particular students. You all have the Ministry Directive, so you know what direction of research is expected. I appoint our Deputy Headmaster, Professor von Strommen, to take responsibility for our new training program, if only he does not object… No? Well, excellent. Then I suggest, dear professor, that you will cooperate with your colleague professor Slughorn in order to work out the less formal ways to influence the desired students. No objection on that? As much as I hoped. Now I wish you all a pleasant evening and would like to remind you that your mentioning of the matters of today's discussion to any other members of the staff is prematurely. Though, I believe, it is needless to say.'

The meeting was over, and the professors, having left their chairs, headed for an exit. Albus Dumbledore watched Horace Slughorn gallantly exchanging bows with madam Merrythought while holding door for her; then waited till the sound of his colleagues' steps faded, checked once again if the door is shut and turned to Dippet.

'Armando,' he said, 'I think I need to talk to you.'


	3. Conversations and Conspiracies

AN: Thank you, my reviewers!

_ShadowDweller_, I intended to write even chapters with Dumbledore as narrator, and odd ones - with various people from Grindelwald circle as narrators.

_Star Mirage_, you are my eternal muse :)

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**Chapter 3. Conversations and Conspiracies.**

_Halloween 1944, Bernese Alps, Yungfrau Region._

_Ivonne Wald _

Ivonne Wald could be completely satisfied with today's breakfast. On account of their guests' recent arrival, it had been served in the Main Breakfast Room, not in the Minor Red Room, as usual, and now, at last, she was granted with the possibility to show herself as the mistress of the castle. Or had it been for nothing, all those tiresome trainings that she had to take almost since the day she was born? She was taught with various rules of etiquette in order to behave like 'a noble girl has to' and, for Merlin sake, not to become a family's disgrace by forgetting which setting is proper for oysters or which one she should greet first, countess or duchess. Oh, her maman was expert in rituals! But, alas and alas again; her family had not enough money for the way of living that supposed implementing of the majority of them. That is why Ivonne's education as 'noble and respectable wizard girl' had long been no more than useless store of knowledge.

She accepted as a due the duty of soon and advantageous marriage, which was planted in her - very carefully but emphatically – by her family. Well, Ivonne herself thought that it would be not bad at all. There was only a small problem: An absence of decent challengers. Of course, there were plenty of rich pureblooded wizards, in Germany as well as in the neighbor countries, but… Those 'rich and pureblooded' were trying to win not in the least a portionless girl from the family which left everything in the past – money, connections, reputation – but somebody more promising.

'Good morning to you, Frau Felsen. How did you rest after your trip? Everything was fine with your rooms?'

'Oh yes, thank you.'

Catherine Felsen and her husband, Klaas Felsen, arrived here almost at down. They had to fly four hours on their brooms, for Chimney Network in the castle was not anymore operating, and, on top of everything, they got into snow storm. Though, Catherine should be accustomed to such kind of weather – she is Russian, after all…

Ivonne did not like Russians and even was slightly afraid of them. Russia was a wild, barbarian country, still wallowed in primitive paganism. Moreover, her sister had eloped with some miserable halfblood from Russia when Ivonne was about fifteen. After that sad event, her chances of decent marriage, never being high enough, dropped practically to nothing. Because she knew for sure - that haughty and pompous 'respectable society' would never accept her as equal…

Empty-headed silly woman that formed the majority of so called 'high-society' were able only to gossip endlessly and pointlessly about people of their acquaintance. Snake tongues and sugar smiles. Like that Octavia Eisgrotte. All covered with gold and jewels, and chattered incessantly. Ivonne carefully smiled in response and nodded from time to time.

In the time of events of thirty two, Ivonne was only eighteen. No perspectives ahead; and from inescapable – their cold, bleak house and her maman who completely and irreversibly lost any connection with reality. Ivonne even began to think of leaving Germany for good, maybe cross the ocean and settle, for instance, in Canada…

But several years later her fate gave her a most unexpected and pleasant surprise. On one of the charity dinners, where she and her mother were still invited to, she met non other than Baron Trentius Wald. Rich, noble, not-so-old, and – the most important - with _very_ reliable family connections… Ivonne listed all pros and contras. 'Contra' was only the fact, that she, having got involved with Wald, would certainly lose her good name – but, to say the truth, since her sister shameful elopement she had not much of a good name left. And anyway, what's the purpose of that 'good name'? Was it important at least for somebody in their age of permissiveness and cynicism?

For this Potter-boy, for example, both 'conscience' and 'loyalty' had long ago become mere empty words. Not mentioning the word 'betrayal'. He was probably burning with desire to get to Grindelwald Laboratories; nearly dying from impatience… That's always happening: those children with brilliant minds and flawed souls create the next super-weapon, and then – with the same recklessness – use it against their own families…

Heartless scum, she thought.

'Did you sleep well, Mr. Potter?'

'Very well, thank you.'

Calm, self-confident, handsome – and is well aware of it. That kind always sleeps well. She would have never said that Potter and Tristan Wald were of the same age, had not she known it for sure. Poor Tristan… a truly nobody. A small, but painful prick to her husband's family pride. Ivonne did not expect that her stepson would grow into something at least half-decent; those over-sensitive hothouse boys are rarely capable of something. She herself was much more mature at Tristan's age, and her course of life was far from being a bed of roses.

But she stood up; and, by the way, was never pitied by anybody.

_Aby_

Heavy table-cloth didn't let the light in, and under the table it was like in the small house. Fraulein Smiph will never find her here. Her secret sanctuary, her magic castle. Terribly wonderful and mysterious.

'Good morning, Princess!'

'Good morning, Milady Ebengarde!'

Bows and curtseys; two dolls obey her as their mistress.

So many legs under the table! They are so funny. Those are dad's. And those in-toed – brother's.

"Did you sleep well, Mr. Potter?"

Nasty, evil Ivonne; Aby will never call her 'mummy'.

"Very well, thank you."

Who's that? Somebody new? Legs are usual, robes are plain, all are black as night. Aby thinks for a moment and then continues:

'Did you sleep well, Princess?'

'Oh, not at all! How could I sleep if my candle constantly died away? I had to look through the window all night long, into that terrible storm!'

'Ah! How's that, Princess? Bad house elves haven't brought you a lamp? Then we should punish them at once! What do you prefer, Princess – impale them or weld them in boiling oil?'

No, this is not interesting. She was bored with elves' punishment. Better this:

'Where is my Captain of the Guards?'

'Yes, Milady?'

'An Enemy has infiltrated my castle! He gave no rest to my guests! I order you to find him, dead or alive, and bring me his head on the big silver plate!'

'As you wish, Milady!'

Aby smiles, and a squadron of brave soldiers lead by her Captain of the Guards sets out in search of Evil Enemy. Tam-tam-tamm! Duh-dee-dunn!

Girl crawls on all fours, and around her, as if forest of column or dead trees, are somebody's legs.

'A-a-a-a! What's that?!'

Forest began to move; the table-cloth was waving dangerously. Aby clenched and covered her ears.

'Please, calm down, Frau Octavia… I am absolutely sure that there are no mice in the castle… You're sure that you have not imagined it?'

Then the table-cloth is moved away, and Aby flees, frightened with loud shrieks and turmoil.

'Ah! That was the little girl!' – laugh - 'Playing under the table, naughty child…'

But little Aby, or Ebengarde Wald, was not hearing that sound, for she ran far-far away from the Main Breakfast room.

Under the table, on the floor, her little dolls are lying, forgotten. One of them is still moving its puny legs as if trying to walk: carrying out his Lady's order, fearless Captain of the Guards is continuing the search of the dangerous Evil Enemy, secretly infiltrated into his mistress' castle.

_Klaas Felsen_

Smiling kindly, Klaas Felsen was watching the turmoil caused by Wald's daughter. Poor good old Octavia jumped so quick that she nearly lost her wig. Ivonne, in her role of 'woman of high society', almost succeeded in dissembling of her confusion – almost, but not quite. In general, as the matter of fact, she conducted herself rather well, though she was still far beneath the true nobility. Felsen shifted his eyes to his wife, and congratulated himself again of his wise choice of life's spouse.

By marrying her, Felsen only intended to improve their relationships with Eastern Coalition (Catherine was the sister of Yaroslav Stavrogine, the Head of Russian Council of Mages), but what he obtained was beyond all expectation. Calm, intelligent, with perfect self-control, free from sudden emotions and stupid prejudices – and at the same time not looking like a cold mechanical doll – Catherine appeared to be just the woman he needed in his position. A true life companion, a companion in arms.

He came to terms with her easily. That was usual for him: he always got well with people. Stiff old-fashioned warlocks, foolish young girls from the new nobility, even that unfortunate rubbish – muggleborns and half-breeds - Feslen could find the right approach to every one of them.

Those who had gathered there were no exceptions.

Ivonne believed him to be her secret ally ever since he had dropped a slight hint on his dislike of Baroness Aurora, and let her know that he would gladly appreciate if her place would take somebody more worthy. It was interesting, though, whether he had really encourage that sentimental silly girl who imagined herself to be a peak of slyness, to the action… because it was clear to him that the circumstances of Aurora Wald's death were not quite matching to what the official sources said. It's not important, however. In fact, Trentius himself might have done it, for he was not a dweeb whom everybody believed him to be. From the considerations of his own, Felsen concluded that now Trentius was simply playing a waiting game – what was not at all stupid, taking into account their unfortunate situation…

Glass appeared to him as a creature from other planet. It is common to believe that the science and research make human a better being – well, it was enough to meet Jurgen Glass and his co-workers in order to become certain of unfairness, to say the least, of that belief. However, let him distiller the mudblood's guts; everybody had his own hobby, after all. Especially taking into account that when it came to the real action, Glass was indeed very useful. He was even more useful than their main 'Man of Action' – Eisgrotte – because Eisgrotte's rude methods of solving very delicate matters could do sometimes more harm than profit. Felsen himself was able to achieve far more prominent results with very little visible efforts. But sometimes Eisgrotte was indispensable – and Felsen looked again at the breakfast table, crammed with all sort of delicacies.

Recently Felsen began to pay attention to Tristan Wald, who had been usually – and mistakenly - ignored by elder generation. As it often happened with children in rich and successful families, Tristan had grown an ardent, passionate idealist, who believed himself to be the Chosen One, called to change everything in our imperfect world for better. Of course, those romantics usually started with defying most precious values of their family and friends, trying to demonstrate their stormy 'noble impulses' where possible. As time went by, the ardour and zeal smoothened, and a Great Destructor turned to usual man – strong or weak, clever or stupid – it could not be predicted, but now, in the short period of his rebellious youth, he was a figure unknown. It would be not bad to take in hand this 'pale youth', Felsen thought.

The other young man, whom he noticed immediately upon arrival, was the Andrew Potter – Felsen was already sick of hearing about him from Glass. Felsen rather liked the boy, though. It was obvious that Potter is not stupid and is well aware of what he is aiming at. His goal, however, was not very dissimilar to the goal of Glass himself: he thirsted for knowledge, at any form, and at any price. Let him get into Laboratories, and then he wouldn't be noticing anyone at all. Like Glass and everyone there. Maybe, like Grindelwald himself…

And today, as he had heard, their company would join Lorraine Delacour, whom he had not the honor to know before and whom he had been looking forward to meet. She was very interesting for him - and not only because she was an object of dreaming of young Tristan Wald. Some things that he heard about Delacour made Felsen to imagine her as quite an intriguing person.

But that would happen later; now, after the breakfast, he had some other important things to do.

_Trentius Wald _

At ten o'clock in the morning Jurgen Glass and his new protégée departed for the Laboratories; and luckily, Felsen went with them. It was hard to say why Felsen decided to go there; probably, he did it 'just in case'. So be it. Ladies gathered in one of the sitting-rooms. Tristan was in his 'studio' (that's how he named that tastelessly decorated pavilion), and poor Aby was serving her sentence under Fraulein Smiph supervision - the girl was punished for spoiling the breakfast with her unsociable behaviour.

Baron Wald invited Gualando Eisgrotte to his private study under the pretext of showing him some rare manuscripts that had been brought to him from East Carpathian excavations. But actually, their conversation was to deal with matters not in the least ancient, but opposite, most contemporary ones. Having closed the door thoroughly with Silent Ward spell and checked it twice, Trentius turned to his interlocutor. For more than a month already, they both knew that this conversation was unavoidable. But even now, Trentius was surprised with Eisgrotte's straightforwardness:

'Baron, neither you nor I are stupid. We understand what is going on perfectly.'

Trentius nodded carefully.

'The Muggle regime in Germany will fall tomorrow if not today. And it'll take the remains of their Wizarding Society with itself.'

'It is obvious. They were as good as done in thirty nine, when we deprived them of our assistance.'

'Yes, I am well aware of our plan; divide and conquer and so on,' waved Eisgrotte jauntily. 'But what are we left with now? We were supposed to come to an agreement with Stavrogine, but that did not happen. I am not a fool, though, and knew that it was impossible from the very beginning. Russia is a very special case; we will never understand it. Just think of it – thirty years of their Red Nightmare could not break the Society; while we were thinking that they should collapse to Dark Ages within year or two...'

Of all that Trentius was aware not worse than Eisgrotte, and thus gave a sign, indicating "we are lack of time, so continue".

'Sorry, I digressed. Well, Russians are not an option. Then who? Official England would suit us perfectly; especially since the majority, as it seemed, shared our opinion on cooperation with Muggle world. And then – almost like a _magic_, doesn't it? - ' Eisgrotte produced an unkind smile, pointing at the irony of his words, 'this strange Ollan comes to power – from where did he come out at all? – and they turn their back to us before we manage to set our dearest Klaas upon them.'

Trentius sighed; yes, something strange occurred then in Britain. It might seem that unfortunate example of what happened in Germany, when local wizards decided to close in with the muggles, and got as a result… what they got, should have prevented all other muggle-lovers from experiments of the kind – but what happened was just the opposite. Of course, the bitter experience of the neighbors hadn't gone unnoticed, and the new British Ministry of Magic made some obvious arrangements – but still, they did not refused from the idea of Open Society.

Even then, however, Felsen did not lose hope that the agreement between their countries was sill possible. There were a lot of old nobility in Britain, ultra-conservative in their beliefs. They knew for sure that many of these families – Malfoys, Blacks, Garnets to name a few - possessed a great power while being in opposition to Ministry new course. But then Trentius' brother and leader of their party, Grindelwald, for some unknown reason performed some utterly stupid actions. Trentius had always considered them stupid, no need to deny it. Now, Eisgrotte should obviously mention it.

'And what did we do? Try to with the support of their opposition? Not at all. Instead of that, we continued our bloody pursuits, as if there was something important in this hunt. And there was not ninety ten out there, and after a few of our "doings", worthy of the craziest of muggle maniacs, every respectable wizard began to dash aside from us as from a pack of mad dogs.'

Yes, that was true indeed. Those terrible years, from ninety ten till ninety fifteen, all of them tried to forget as soon as possible. As if somebody could forget it. Even some of their closest associates fled from them during that nightmare. Von Strommen family, for example, had left among the first ones, to his surprise. They had seemingly nothing to afraid of. Trentius always wandered of the variety of forms that fear could take.

Eisgrotte was right, a thousand times right… Ninety ten is the one thing, but an attempt to repeat the same in the beginning of forties… A stupidity, unforgivable stupidity. Unforgivable.

'I know what you are driving at, Eisgrotte.'

He stumpled in the middle of the sentence.

'Toss this prehistory aside. Say it. Say it now. Say it straight'.

Eisgrotte was taking a great risk, and Trentius was well aware of that. What if Trentius write this entire dialog in Pensieve later, and show it to his brother Grindelwald? Then poor Gualando could not be saved even by the fact that he and Grindelwald were friends since their childhood. But whatever Eisgrotte's thoughts had been, he brought himself to it in the end. A remarkable deed.

'If you please, Wald. We are at a deadlock. None of the influential Wizarding societies support us. That disgusting muggle regime is still helping, but this is… you understand. We are left with only one possibility – to wait till muggle Germany fell, and disappear in havoc that will arise. Go into hiding somewhere in Carpathian woods. Cease all activity. Stop that idiotic project of Glass… yes, yes, I know what it means for Grindelwald. That it is a work of all his life…'

Eisgrotte moved closer and finished:

'But if he won't stop know, he will be deprived of not only of the work of his life, but of the very life itself.'

Trentius bit his lip. All of that was true; Eisgrotte was right to a slightest detail… But he simply could not imagine what this project meant for his brother.

'It is impossible, Eisgrotte,' said Trentius briefly and turned away.

That's it. Conversation was over. Weak noise behind Trentius's back told him that Gualando Eisgrotte rose from his seat.

'So… You may lift the wards, Trentius.'

He approached the door and, trying not to meet Eisgrotte's eyes, broke magic seals.

Standing at the door, Gualando suddenly put his hand on baron's shoulder and smiled openly. Then he said:

'Thank you.'

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_AN: Thank you for your attention! As always, reviews are welcome..._


	4. Bad Feelings of Professor Dumbledore

AN: Thanks all who are reading my story!

_Star Mirage_, thank you so ever much for your constant support! You know, I'll continue even if you'll be my only reader... As for action - there will be more in later chapters. For now it is just the necessary setting. And long conversations...

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**Chapter 4. Bad Feelings of Professor Dumbledore.**

_September 1943, Hogwarts._

Armando Dippet sighed and looked at Dumbledore without any enthusiasm. Such a cold welcome did not discourage Albus: he knew that Hogwarts Headmaster recently used to get tired with any society, even with the society of his closest fiend, whom Albus rightly believed himself to be.

'Something's happened, Albus?' Headmaster asked, and Albus winced from sudden pity: so weakly and almost helplessly Dippet's voice sounded.

'Well, nothing extraordinary, to say the truth…' he said hastily, already doubting whether he was right when he had started this conversation. 'Nothing new, I would say.'

No; sooner or later, but he had to tell Dippet about that; so better to do it now. Nobody knew what could happen to him in a week or even tomorrow. But only how to say it? Vague suspicions and dim presentiments were hardly got up to the verbal form. Usually Dippet from half a word understood what Dumbledore meant to say, even if Albus had failed in expressing his thoughts precisely, but now he was not sure that his friend would demonstrate a similar astuteness.

'You see, this story about so-called "Heir of Slytherin" is still bothering me… Something is not right there.' Dumbledore brought himself to say at last.

Armando Dippet had the reputation for rather restrained and very polite person, but this time he did not even try to cover his irritation:

'About that again?' he winced oversensitively. 'But what for, tell me please, _what for_ have you decided to turn up this case? What could possibly be wrong there? Well, of course except our – well, mine above all - carelessness? Yes, we overlooked; yes, one of our students did possess a dangerous pet; yes, it managed to get loose and attack several children… The girl's death is terrible, undeniably… but, after all, it was a clear accident.' Dippet put in his mouth a small white pill, then took a sip of water from a glass standing on the table and continued. 'But the fact that this story was published – and in most distorted way – that is badly indeed. We are hanging by a thread as it is, and all that jabber about "ancient horror reborn"… it is very, I would say… untimely. Who being in his right mind could imagine that the Heir of Slytherin really exists, I wonder? It is a myth, a fairy tale! To believe in it seriously is the same thing as to believe in Santa Claus or in Snow White and consider them to be real historical persons! For five-years old, it is excusable – but for adult, respectable wizards to take seriously such nonsense…' Dipped shook his head, showing his condemnation.

Albus Dumbledore began to adjust his spectacles perplexedly. He could not understand why it is common to believe in Santa Claus when you are five and it is indecent when you are fifty. Not very nice to all those 'adult respectable wizards' whom Dippet was talking about. But now Albus was preoccupied with another matter and thus set his Santa-Claus reasoning aside.

'But, Armando, you did not quite understand me. I was not stating that all this crimes were committed by the real Heir of Slytherin – the one from the legend.'

'Well, it's rather good for you,' Dippet smiled. 'Otherwise I would doubt if you are indeed in your right mind, my friend.'

'I mean this Heir of Slytherin could possibly exist… somewhere… theoretically…' Dumbledore said enthusiastically. 'Indeed, why could not he exist?'

'Albus!' Dippet's voice was full of reproach, and Dumbledore understood that he'd gone too far in his suppositions.

'Don't pay attention; it was just by the way… It does not matter, after all, if this Heir really exists.'

'And in that you are absolutely right, my friend,' Dippet caught up. 'Other thing is much more important – and namely, that some of our, if I may say, _papermen_ are trying to do their best in order to convince Wizarding community in his existence, and by this mere fact are causing a great amount of trouble for the school …'

It was not the direction of the talk that Dumbledore was interested in, but he did not interfere, not daring to stop Headmaster. The latter meanwhile continued, his temper growing stronger:

'I'll be honest with you, Albus: I did not expect them to be silent. It's their job, after all, to write about various incidents. But they could think of tact… of caution… of keeping true to real facts, at least, instead of fooling people with their spooky fantasies. Isn't it the matter of their professional honor? "The Heir of Slytherin appeared in Hogwarts!" Dippet quoted pathetically. 'Where did they dig that rubbish? A single stupid phrase on the wall is not enough for such far-going conclusions. And it was not a gutter press, but "The Daily Prophet", a newspaper most respectful. Chief Editor there is one of my former students – well, it does not matter in our times, but still… And I don't understand how the Ministry censor allowed it.'

The inscription that Headmaster mentioned – "_He will purge this place by the hand of His Heir_" – was founded written on the wall just above the body of one of the first monster's victims. And this very mysterious phrase was the main source of Dumbledore's worries.

'This is just the matter I would like to discuss with you,' said Dumbledore quickly. 'Tell me please, Armando, do you seriously believe that Rubeus Hagrid _could_ write something of the kind? For this is completely not… not his thing!'

Dippet looked at him for several moments silently, presumably trying to recollect himself after his heartfelt speech, and then suddenly burst out laughing:

'So, that's the matter! But of course. You are still worrying about your protégé?' he stopped laughing and shook his head. 'There's time to stop, my friend. We are already done for Hagrid as much as we could. Saved him from Azkaban, found a job – what else could be done, especially taking into consideration the circumstances? Of course, he did not mean any harm, but still we must remember that it was he who caused the child's death… Even if unwillingly.'

'I will not touch now the question of Rubeus' guilt; although even there nothing is clear, contrary to what you may think,' said Dumbledore, slightly embarrassed with misunderstanding. 'Now I'm speaking only of these words on the wall, nothing else. And, speaking of these, I strongly object the fact that Hagrid could possibly write such an inscription. Not under any conditions. He's just different person. One could hardly find a less believable candidate for authorship of this pretentious slogan. Had you known him better, you would not doubt it.'

'Your stubbornness, Albus, sometimes oversteps all limits. You're continuing to excuse Hagrid even now? After his own admission of guilt?' Dippet smiled distrustfully. 'Sorry, my friend, but - '

'That's just the point!' Dumbledore interrupted. 'Hagrid did never say that he had written something on the walls. He just admitted that it is possible that his Aragog got free, but even then…'

'Sophistry, Albus, mere sophistry,' Dipped stopped him impatiently. 'Empty word-play. I was not expecting that from you… How could Hagrid be sure or not sure of _anything_ if he himself was intoxicated by this Ararog's, or how's his name, venom? Ah, and did I mention that Madam Merrythought had succeeded in the venom description? Just imagine, its effects are similar to that of Moon Charms…'

When it came to the discussion of the variety of charms, Armando could talk for hours – a weakness, excusable for former Ravenclaw student and former Charms Professor. This time, however, Dumbledore was not going to be lenient toward it.

'That is interesting academic problem, indeed, but I suggest that we'll discuss it some other time. So, you believe that Hagrid wrote these words while being under Aragog's venomous charms? And, by the way, do you suppose that it was Aragog who encourage him of doing that?'

'Of course not! Why would an animal being – even intelligent one – touch all that pureblood issue? It is purely human affair; and not the best example of _humanity_, to my regret.'

'My point exactly, Armando,' smiled Albus in response.

'Listen, Albus,' Dippet frowned, 'I don't understand what you are trying to prove here. I agree that Hagrid would have never done such thing had he been in his own senses. But when bewitched by something – who knows? Both you and I know what a person can do while being under mind-affecting spell or potion. When you are sound, you believe all that pureblood defenders to be stupid fanatics. You object them politely or you loathe them passionately, that is up to your character, but you don't share their beliefs. Am I right? But when you are put under a curse, your point of view might be quite the opposite. Human mind is a mystery, after all; and human soul is an abyss.'

'We could have a good time admiring its depth, then; but we above all should try _to see_ something in it - and that's what we and you, as school professors, are obliged to do,' said Albus definitely. 'And if I _can_ be sure of something at all, then I'm sure that in all that depth of mind and soul, Rubeus Hagrid does not possess anything that makes him capable of such an action.'

Dippet sighed.

'So, you suggest that somebody else is involved? Somebody, who had been pushing Hagrid?' he asked tiredly.

Albus noted to himself that he had succeeded in rather difficult task of provoking Headmasters interest. At least, now Dippet was considering the possibility that it had not been entirely Hagrid's fault.

'Well, it could be,' Dumbledore answered evasively. 'Either pushing Hagrid or acting on his own… But this is certainly so.'

'Brilliant,' said Dippet, again with a sigh. 'And you already know who it is? Or at least could provide us with some suspicious facts?'

Now, they were moving to not-so-pleasant part of the discussion. For bad feeling is one thing, and concrete accusation or even well-grounded suspicion are quite another…

'Do I suspect somebody?' he repeated. 'Well, both you and I know that mere intuition does not form solid enough foundation for final verdict. But still –'

How to continue, Albus was not sure; and his 'still' left uncomfortable _stillness_ in the air.

'Shall I _beg_ you to continue?' Dippet broke the silence at last. 'Or you don't have any facts, after all?'

'Alas, my friend, what I have is not facts… But at least it is something.' Albus waved his hand indefinitely. 'Small exercise in psychology, if I may say so…'

'Small exercise in psychology?' repeated Dippet, slightly puzzled. Then he made a guess, 'Ah, you were going to study Legilimency – so, you succeeded? It is not quite right to do in school, and you know my position on it; but – did you manage to inquire something?'

Albus lowered his gaze guiltily. Legilimency, the art of reading human mind, was a discipline very difficult and did not come easily to him. His timid attempt to use it ended with absolute fiasco. Nor he had enough practice, for it was impossible to use it at school. After all he gave up on it completely and put his efforts on finding another way to gain truth; and in that he almost succeeded, or at least he believed in it.

'Not Legilimency,' he said. 'It is just as Veritaserum: one can use it only if he's sure of somebody's guilt. When you have no suspect, it is useless.'

'Hmm, then what?' asked Dippet, rather disappointedly than curiously.

'Tell me, Armando, why we so rely upon our special magical abilities and devices? Have you ever inquired how muggles find their criminals? For the crimes there are not magical, and Magic Detectors would be of no use, even if muggles have them… They have nor our Legilimency neither Veritaserum. Interesting, don't you think?' with that, Dumbledore looked at Dippet expectantly.

Albus always regretted that people of Wizarding World put so little attention to muggle sciences. It was a shame, indeed, how they treated non-magic people and their achievements; Albus himself believed that there are a lot of wonderful things that could be learnt from muggles. Had the circumstances been different, he would obviously go deeper in this subject, but now he had no such possibility.

'I hope that you did not bring to Hogwarts those muggle people in funny dresses – police-men, if I'm not mistaken?'

'No, not at all,' Albus smiled. 'My studies haven't got so far; what I was trying to do is just to find an alternative, more effective way of thinking which could help us here…'

'Well, then you will probably describe this revolutionary way of yours?' suggested Dippet phlegmatically.

Dippet's mood remained rather skeptical, but despite of that Albus decided to proceed in his explanations:

'Maybe, it will look strange to you; you might believe it to be out of place here. But please, I'm asking for your patience.'

After Headmaster's silent nod he continued:

'Every our deed left an imprint on the Universe. This statement had been repeated thousands times, so we all know it. But what it can possibly mean for us? Even if we believe in these words, we suppose the trails of our actions to be purely material. We always need something that we could touch, or feel, or at least observe – that's why you were asking me for "real facts". But are those "real facts" all that exists in our world? Perhaps, we essentially narrow our perception if we believe so. Our striving for physical reality is bounding us; it is even blinding us. Take for instance our case of mythical Heir of Slytherin. We were so entangled in all those real facts and proven accusation that we just failed to see the obvious! Are we blind, or deaf, or stupid? No, we were just too rational. It's also a fault, you know. We were relying on the facts – on the details – but forget the very _essence_. Had we thought differently, we would have already found what is going on there. Man's actions are not some mechanical movements; they are embodiment of his will, of his intentions; in them his _soul_ is revealed. Whatever he's doing, there is always his heart present; in every deed, in every action. And if we look closely, we could feel it. That is exactly what I was trying to find: not the isolated facts, but the core, the essence, the _heart of it all_.'

Dumbledore felt that he'd been carried away and stopped for a moment. Then he continued:

'Try to see this crime not as a set of impersonal events, but as a revelation of somebody's will. We see the outcome, but what the _purpose_ was? And who is the man that could give a life to such a purpose?'

'And who is this man, indeed?' Dippet almost echoed Dumbledore's words, but with no sign of the passion of the latter.

'So far I was able to see only fragments of the picture. But what I saw was very disturbing,' said Albus. Then he proceeded, slowly and cautiously. 'This person, whoever it is, is obsessed with an idea; which idea, both you and I know precisely, for Salazar Slytherin's beliefs have never been a secret. That's not exactly the reason for my worries, though. More than half of the pureblooded wizards to some extent share those beliefs. Here we have something more than that. This person truly believes himself to be different, special – to be above them – to be the chosen one of the sorts. It doesn't matter if he really is the Heir of Slytherin or even if the thinks that he is the one; what matters is that he feels the right to proclaim Slytherin's ideas. It might be some sort of holy mission to him. And, which is worse, not only to proclaim, but to put them into practice… And, since he succeeded, even if only partially, he's not just the average man indeed, however hard it may be for me to admit. But there is even more to it. Whatever importance these ideas had for this person, there is a thing even of greater value for him – namely, his _self_. Look, he's obviously striving for public recognition; and the recognition trough fear...'

Here Dumbledore felt that his imagination had leaded him too far, and stopped. He believed that he already said enough, and Dippet, certainly, would understand the seriousness of his concern.

'Well… It sounds frightening. It is some monster, indeed, the person you described,' said Dippet skeptically. 'One could even label him – "Absolute Evil".'

'I might be exaggerating a little,' answered Dumbledore protectively. 'But I'm not blaming anyone particular… It is just the feeling… That's what I perceive in those attacks… There_ is_ something in the air, you can not object…'

Armando Dippet, to all appearances, was far from being impressed by Dumbledore's psychological studies.

'So, your inner feelings tell you that… Having a well-developed intuition is a good thing, no doubt. It could be helpful, you know. But, alas, it has some disadvantages... And you are claiming that you are not going to blame anyone yet? And when, let me inquire, you will be ready to name us the person who'll match this so finely drawn portrait?' Dippet was looking at Albus expectantly.

This question was a rhetorical one, and Dumbledore know that. Of course he was aware that his theory, while being right, would be worth nothing if he did not manage to confirm his findings with some real proof. But the search for facts should start somewhere; otherwise, who could one know what he is searching for?

'You have a vivid imagination, indeed,' Dippet continued. 'And… please, do not take offence – but do you sleep enough?'

Dumbledore felt as if he was suddenly struck down.

'So, you think that it is absolute nonsense?' he asked, his voice quavered.

'I'm not saying that, Albus. Why are you always exaggerating? I suppose that there could be _something_ in your ideas. But,' and Dippet shook his head, 'This "something" is too much ephemeral. Especially when all your arguments are nothing but weird and not convincing theorizations.'

The words "not convincing theorizations" were especially painful. Why are they "not convincing"? "Not proven yet" – may be; but why call them "not convincing"?

'I believe that you are too harsh, Armando. Or maybe, I failed to explain it to you… Of course I will not blame anyone without the real proof. But I was trying to understand at least, in what direction this proof may lie. Is it not enough? And why you are calling my, as you said, "theorization" not convincing? I'm asking you to explain yourself…'

Armando Dippet looked at Albus with such sad reproach that the latter immediately felt very ashamed of himself. All his offence vanished, along with all ardent and firm arguments that he was going to present.

'Explain yourself? If you wish,' Dippet answered. 'So you asked me to imagine this Heir's inner thoughts? Put myself in his shoes – am I right? And now I'm asking you: put yourself in _my_ shoes. Imagine, that you, Albus Dumbledore, are Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In past – the most acknowledged of British wizard schools, and now – the only one, and the only one not only in Britain, but in the entire Europe. And then imagine that every month you receive piles of Ministry Directives which are going weirder and more absurd week by week. And all these Directives demand absolutely impossible things from the school, from the staff, from you; but you, nevertheless, somehow manage to fulfill them. Imagine that there are not enough staff members – catastrophically not enough – but you could not invite anybody new; just because there is no one decent left. Well, this is what you are familiar with…' Dippet pointed to the fact that this year Hufflepuff House was left without the official Head of the House; which had never happened before and was though to be impossible. 'Then imagine that every year they prune school budget – which is, of course, quite righteous in our circumstances, but because of that to keep Hogwarts properly is becoming much harder. We were literally hanged by a thread last year, Albus. I haven't told that to you before, but they did seriously consider the possibility of closing Hogwarts down… And now imagine that, as if to crown it all, those strange attacks begin. Who is doing that, and why? Merlin knows. And you have to act in the most absurd – even criminal – manner; for instead of informing the Ministry and waiting patiently for their committee of investigation to arrive, you are trying to _conceal _what is going on, to conceal it from everyone, even from the students, because parents of some of them are members of the Board of Governors and thus will inform Ministry for sure; and you have to conceal that because you know, and know for certain, that if Ministry finds a slightest cause, Hogwarts will be closed, and all those children will have to go home; and very few will remember that for a quarter of them it means returning to Muggle world – and, with all this terrible war, it is as good as have them killed at once,' Dippet made a grimace showing what he feel about that mournful fate. 'And then imagine that _somehow_ the matter is resolved, and the guilty one is caught – by mere chance, to say the truth, but nevertheless… And you barely had time to have a sigh of relief, when some mysterious and foggy 'inconsistencies' are brought into light. And they are not real, solid facts – no, it is just ungrounded guess-work. So, Albus, you were offended that I believe your thoughts to be baseless and not worthy of considering? I have to admit, my dear friend, that here I have paltered. I _wish_ them to be not worthy of considering. But they are very disturbing, all those psychological exercises of yours; at least, enough disturbing to, in case they are spread, start a new wave of gossip and scandals; and that wave, along with that simply brilliant article in "The Daily Prophet", will put an end to our school faster than that damned Heir of Slytherin with his monster… I mean not poor Hagrid, but the _real _Heir of Slytherin; if he exists at all, which – for me – is still doubtful - '

Dippet had a fit of coughing and stretched his hand for a glass with water, but jogged a decanter, and the water spilled all over the table.

Dumbledore, who was sort of numbed by his friend's speech, come to his senses and sprang up, helping Dippet to rescue the documents from this accidental flood. Then it came to him that to use magic would be much better. He took out his wand and quickly, with two simple spells, restored the order.

'Thank you', said Dippet wearily. 'I'm completely out of sorts today…'

Sad, but true, thought Dumbledore; maybe, poor Dippet had an insomnia as well? However, he understood that today it was him who put Headmaster in this nervous state.

'May be, not only I here is in need of good sleep?' said Albus with a forced smile.

Dippet laughed, but there was not much joy in his voice.

'Straight to the point. My strongest desire during last month was to go somewhere far and away, and have a long sleep… I'd sleep for a whole day or two, or even for a week. But you see,' he raised his hand limply, pointing to the piles of papers on his desk; all those documents were waiting for Headmaster's attention.

'Well,' said Dumbledore, not sure what else to add.

For the conversation was over, and all he had to do was to leave… But then Dippet stop smiling and began to speak again, this time very seriously and sadly:

'I am not sure if you understand me. I know, it may seem to you that I'm simply trying to hush up this affair,' Dippet looked wistfully at the empty decanter. 'Well, even if I'm indeed trying to hush up - '

'No, I understand you, Armando,' answered Dumbledore hastily. He already realized that Dippet was absolutely right is this situation – but the same could not be said about him, Albus Dumbledore, who was acting simply childish. 'I should not have bothered you with this.'

'And here you are wrong. Am I not Hogwarts Headmaster, after all, or am I?' said Dippet, rising. 'And, being Headmaster, I ought to know what is going on here. In order to pretend, at least, that I can influence something. So I would appreciate if you continue your investigation. I'm only asking you to be as discreet as possible. We are in very delicate situation, Albus… And the matter itself is very delicate,' he added quieter. 'I'm afraid you don't understand Slytherin students well enough. No offence here. It will come with time. So be very cautious. Don't take a biased view of them. They are not the sympathetic ones. But even if the person is not very pleasant, such as Malfoy, for example, it doesn't mean that he or she is guilty. Anyway, I don't advice you to talk to students directly. If you need an advice, speak to Horace Slughorn… To von Strommen, if the worst comes to the worst. But the best is not to speak to any of the staff members. I'm starting to sound desperate, am I? And please, understand: unless you manage to uncover some real facts… an undisputable proof… I will not be able to help. '

Both of them were standing at the door already.

'Of course I'll keep you informed, Armando. Though, I must admit, you almost persuaded me not to uncover anything,' Albus smiled.

Dippet nodded in response.

'That's up to you; but I wish you to know that I trust in you, my friend. Even more than I trust in myself.'

And then, he added almost inaudibly:

'_And I wish you do stop him in time…_'

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Happy Valentine's Day!!! A review would be _love_ly... 


	5. The Laboratories

AN. Traditional thanks to my readers and reviewers!

_StarMirage_: In this story I used the timeline that is kind of "official": ChoS opened in 1943 (Tom Riddle's 5th y.), Grindelwald defeated in 1945. As to method of Dumbledore's investigation: we'll see! The man is quite resourceful... Just wait for the next chapter ;)

_ShadowDweller_: Dumbledore is my favourite also, and it's a pity that he won't be in Book 7... And I will certainly write about Tom Riddle, and very soon. There'll be some of him in the next chapter, and much more later in the course of the story.

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**Chapter 5. The Laboratories.**

_November 1944, Bernese Alps, Jungfrau Region _

_Klaas Felsen_

Something in the very air of the Laboratories was irritably dreary for Felsen; and due to that he avoided visiting them when possible. But today he simply ought to be in Glass' domain. They needed to talk privately, while in the castle there was no such possibility: Baron Trentius certainly had installed various spying devices all over the castle. Now, Felsen even persuaded himself to find a sort of pleasure in that 'inspection': he would have a wonderful mountain walk – he was always fond of mountains – and, besides that, it could provide an excellent possibility to make closer acquaintance with Potter. The Englishman might be of some use to him – who knows.

Their trio reached the plateau where Laboratories were situated unexpectedly quickly; and the English boy held himself surprisingly well, not worse than Glass or Felsen himself – despite the fact that Potter had been presumably unfamiliar with Jumping Boots. That proficiency put Felsen on his guard even more, and he thought again: somehow this boy had too many talents. In magic, in muggle sciences – and now in physical exercises. Quite unlike the typical turncoats and whiners whom he had seen a great many. It was interesting if the boy –

'I bet you are good in quidditch,' continued Felsen his thought.

'Quite the contrary. Never had enough practice,' Potter's features were restrained as always, but his glance changed intangibly, as if for a moment he had though of something very pleasant. Eh, how young he is indeed, thought Felsen, feeling a strange pity for the boy. If he still could be so happy with simple life gifts…

He cast a glance at edgy snow-covered mountain ridges, so dear to him in his youth age, and took a deep breath. Frosty air was clear and fresh; blanket of snow glared under white rays of the winter sun; and the blue of the sky was unfeasibly deep. It was a truly perfect day; but, nevertheless, its beauty left Felsen untouched. All those – admiring the scenery and deep-drawn breathes – were but a matter of habit; in reality he long ago lost that exciting, almost mystical spirit in which he used to be while in mountains. Another age, and another pleasures. Why the best feelings of one's life were always in the past?

'Well, we are near the entrance now. But you certainly see it already, mister Potter, don't you?' asked Glass, hiding the grin of satisfaction in his eyes – for the entrance was hidden so well that no one of them was able to see it.

To Felsen's surprise, Potter-boy answered without any hesitation:

'Over there, just next to the red rock.'

Glass did not say anything, only slightly strained himself. Felsen decided to play fool for a while:

'Oh, is it so easy noticeable? Glass, dear friend, but you assured us that – '

'I mean, I just _thought_ that it could be there,' said Potter hastily. Hmm, is he nervous? The boy was composed, as always, but that was just how he _looked_…

'Don't put on a modest air, mister Potter,' said Glass stiffly. 'There is no need of that.'

Potter remained calm at this comment. This steadiness hardly was natural, though Felsen still could not tell for sure if the boy was simply posing. There was something weird about him. That Potter was surely hiding something from them.

Meanwhile, Jurgen Glass was doing something near supposed entrance – which appeared to be precisely where Potter had pointed. Felsen turned away politely – let Glass lift his super-secret wards; he had no need to know them. Instead, he tried to continue his conversation with Potter.

'It appears that your guess was right, mister Potter. Beware, Glass could start to think that you are gifted in clairvoyance as well,' he laughed. 'Though, it is not unusual - for a Ravenclaw student...'

Andrew Potter smiled in response; though, as Felsen noticed, he was slightly surprised.

'People so often took me for a Ravenclaw that it almost came true, it seems… The truth is, however, that I've never attended Hogwarts. My parents decided against it.'

All that Felsen knew already: he had read Potter's dossier, after all. It's a pity that the boy was not a Hogwarts student, for then they would have much more information on him. Anyway, he didn't go there, and that's it. Felsen did not know much of boy's parents, so could not say if the decision in favour of home education was unusual for them. He recalled that the Potters, though being rather old wizard family, were not over-conservative in their beliefs; one of Andrew's grand-grand-fathers even was a muggleborn… And they had a tendency to be sorted in Gryffindor.

'As to me - by the way, I _did_ attend Hogwarts in my time,' said Felsen. Strangely, but it was true.

'Indeed?' Potter's surprise was just as far from indifference as politeness required. 'And to which House _you _were sorted?'

Felsen did not have time to answer: Glass, at least, finished fiddling with the wards and told them that the entrance was open.

_Andrew Potter_

Andrew looked around attentively, trying not to miss anything and at the same time not to look over-curious. There should be a fine balance in all his actions and statements; he made a mistake already outside with the entrance. He knew that these people would test him and expected that; but he failed to understand what the test would be exactly. Felsen should certainly suspect him now. But there was nothing to be done with it, at least, for time being; so it's better to pay attention what was going on now.

At first glance, everything was not as it should be. The large room bore resemblance to a muggle factory rather than to a mage's laboratory. There were no cauldrons, no retorts, no cabbalistic writings on the walls, and no ancient scrolls on the shelves. Instead of them – an abundance of shiny chrome-plated metal: levers, clock-faces, buttons with unintelligible inscriptions… At last he managed to spot several places where so-called "common" magic was implemented; but even there, as far as he could understand, its function was auxiliary.

To be honest, he expected something of the kind, and thus was not surprised. All those impressive muggle devices was but insignificant details – a supplement – for a true, real power that underlay them. They were not interesting for him by themselves, and their tinsel splendour just confirmed his thoughts about the nature of magic hidden behind: it should be something truly grand, something that no one had seen before. And he came there not because he wanted to admire all those enormous tubes and cauldrons, glittering in bluish light of the invisible lamps. He was to reveal the very essence of it all, which had breathed a life into this mechanic and metallic performance.

But thus far, no matter how hard he tried, he failed to sense at least a slightest sight of real magic which should be hidden under all that machinery. Glazed tiles, a lot of metal, even more wires and strange vapour, smelling of something warm and sour. That was all. Nothing veiled. Andrew forced himself not to lose his spirits: his temporary failure meant that the master of Laboratories _could_ keep his secret… He had to be very patient and very cautious if he was going to uncover it.

'Everything is so… technological,' he said at last; he had to say something just because he felt that his companions were expecting that.

'We are not some warlocks from Middle Age, mister Potter. Though you are right, it could be quite unusual for wizards who see it for a first time. They are expecting to see something more – ' Glass paused, trying to find a suitable word.

'It looks like a distillery,' Andrew continued. 'A simple _muggle_ distillery.'

'Well, you guessed the main purpose correctly,' Glass nodded.

Really, Andrew thought. And he said it for no particular reason. He could never quite understand why it always happened that some of his odd guesses and fantasies somehow appeared to be true. It made a proper impression on those around him, however.

'And what about the muggle look of it,' Glass continued, 'it is of no importance. A true science should be free from prejudices. Its ultimate goal is functionality.'

'Oh, I see you are a muggle-lover, Glass,' Felsen laughed.

'Not more than you are,' Glass answered coolly. Andrew noted to himself that Felsen's attempt of teasing missed the mark – or, rather, remained unnoticed by his opponent. He looked at Felsen again – he was busy with inspecting some plain clock dial, the same as just any other here. What was so special about it?

'And this method is indeed more… efficient?' Andrew stressed his doubt purposely.

'When it comes to mass production – definitely yes,' Glass answered. 'And since we did not invent anything alternative to what Muggles had created – why not just borrow their findings?'

'Ah, Glass, thus you'll come to the fact that magic is not necessary for your work at all,' Felsen laughed and gave a wink to Andrew, as if inviting him to be his ally.

Glass looked at Felsen briefly, showing his discontent, but his answer was quite polite:

'This is only the first impressions. As time goes by, you'll understand, mister Potter, what is going on here.'

'_And this is almost a promise,'_ Andrew said to himself, feeling a strange satisfaction. Because Glass has just admitted that all this shiny machinery is no more than a shell, a fiction. It is necessary, but not the most important. And with time he'll certainly find out what is going on here, in that Glass was absolutely right.

He will understand the purpose of the entire system they had built; to its slightest detail, to its smallest minutiae…

_Jurgen Glass _

Jurgen Glass noted to himself with pleasure that Potter was indeed impressed with the spectacle, though the boy, true to his secretive nature, tried to conceal his feelings. He purposely began their tour at the First Chamber, where the scale of the processes was seen at best. Probably, it was a way too theatrical; after all, the entire complex of the First Chamber was in fact just "a simple distillery", as the boy had said. There was nothing special or innovative in that distillery – maybe, with the exception of its gigantic size. Chemical processes there also had nothing extraordinary and promised no scientific breakthrough: it was just the prefiltering and distillation of the incoming raw materials; neither complex magic nor energetic streams were used. The reactions yield was paltry; no more than ten millilitres from ten litres. At the following stages – even less than that… The sum of their work literally could not be seen with unaided eye…

'…And now there, if you please,' he said, inviting his guests into the Second Chamber.

They entered and stopped at the door, wonderstruck: the mirror-like ball-shaped room caused nervous shock even in him, not to mention the strangers.

'This is the Second Chamber. Not so muggle as before, isn't it, mister Potter? And nevertheless here, as it was in the previous chamber, the majority of the processes are just the simple chemical reactions…'

Potter looked at him rather distrustfully, but did not say anything.

'Yes, of course, the magic is present here, but it is needed only for guidance, not for transformation itself. Here, look at this device,' he pointed to one of the Dividers. 'What is it, how do you think?'

That he will never guess, that deceptively modest Andrew Potter. He did not even try.

'And what it is, indeed?' Felsen inquired.

'It's one of the separators; a device for sorting of prefiltered materials. My assistant, Herbert Rosier, will explain you everything in detail.'

Rosier heard him at once, though Glass was speaking rather quietly, and raised his head.

'Rosier, this is Andrew Potter; you know about him. Show him everything here… The Third Chamber too. I'd like him to begin as soon as possible.'

A silent nod in response. Then Glass turned to Potter:

'So, Potter. For the rest of the day I consign you to my assistant. Have a look around, and don't hesitate to ask anything. You should be familiar with all our standard procedures and devices. Tomorrow you are to start working.'

It seemed that Potter was slightly bewildered. No surprise: had Glass more time, he'd have Potter to study Laboratories properly, but now it was out of question.

'Yes, you may though that it is somewhat… untimely…'

'No, not at all,' said Potter hurriedly. 'I understand.'

Glass smiled. He understands. What a lucky boy. Glass himself, for instance, was far from understanding. For example, he did not see at all what the hell Felsen had decided to go with them here today, and what he's going to tell him so urgently. But that he would discover in a few minutes.

After exchanging brief glances, Glass and Felsen departed. The door, having closed behind them, turned the Chamber's inner surface into a perfect mirror.

'So, I see you are satisfied with your latest acquisition, Jurgen?' asked Felsen.

'Completely,' Glass nodded and looked straight into Felsen's eyes. As usual, his gaze did not express anything. Another one… _political figure_… Luckily, this one is not as stupid as others. His habit of obscuring the issue, sadly, was not different.

'Well?' hurried him Glass.

Felsen laughed.

'I admire your straightforwardness… Unfortunately, you must have misunderstood me. I'm far from discovering some secrets to you – nor am I going to invite you to join in a conspiracy.'

Of course; he is not an idiot: to hatch a plot and to believe that he, Glass, will fall for the bait.

'I have little time,' he said stiffly. 'What can I do for you?'

'What can you do? Well, you can tell me, if you please, at which stage the project is now. And that is all.' Felsen looked almost guiltily.

"_At which stage? Why, at the same stage as it was the last year. Or the year before last. Or three, or ten, or twenty years ago_," Glass thought; but aloud he said:

'Everything is according to plan.'

'Oh, that is very reassuring,' noted Felsen philosophically, 'According to plan. Our inevitable loss is not worth worrying about – and why should it be? – for we had planned it in advance; and everything goes according to plan…'

'No need to enact a farce, Felsen.'

'Me? Listen, Glass, I'm talking now with _you_, and not with Eisgrotte or Baron; and exactly with _you_, because you are able – unlike them – to realize our circumstances and are able to regard things in a sensible light. You might not think highly of me, but nevertheless you don't hold me for an idle-headed chatterer.'

'Do I, indeed?' Jurgen could not help asking.

'I am sure of that, Glass. Absolutely sure. I'm tired of muddling. It is of no use now.'

Yes, he was right in that. All those backstreet intrigues put him out to no end. Because of them their collaboration, once sealed with blood, now was dissolving to nothing. A good expression – 'sealed with blood'… Especially for those who knew what their so-called project was about. He smiled.

'Well, Felsen. I agree with you.'

"_Though even if I tell you what we are doing here, nothing will come of it…"_ he thought.

'I will tell you what's happening here; I have nothing to hide. Only tell me beforehand – as a _politician_,' Glass did his best trying to say this word without a jeer, 'what could be expected if we suppose that we won't have the results of our research?'

Felsen made himself comfortable in his armchair and crunched his fingers.

'If you please. In two days Stavrogine is signing the pact with Ollan… we can not prevent it anyway… Then let's assume that they need about three weeks in order to coordinate their action and resolve the difficulties with Resistance general policy. After that, the final treaty will be signed. Then let's put half a month for an inevitable in the organizational questions delays. Altogether we have six weeks. This is an estimate of a realist. Had I been an optimist, I'd say two months; had I been a pessimist – a month. That's all.'

Yes, it was all, indeed. The end. They would be simply suppressed by quantities; it is always happening when former rivals unite in order to strike at their common enemy… On this occasion – at them.

'Six weeks…'

A year, or two, or ten changed nothing; so what could possibly happen during those short six week? Nothing.

'Your silence is eloquent,' Felsen nodded. 'How much time do you need?'

'At least ten months – and this is on condition that we'll have all our machines in full operation and if there are no stoppage with the… raw materials.'

They needed thirty thousands units; probably, some hundreds more. That was minimal requirement for qualitative leap.

'Impossible,' said Felsen.

'I know,' Glass nodded.

Quantity turning into quality – one must see it in order to understand. That's why he didn't like the First Room; for there this transition was shown _in flesh._ A distiller for purifying the blood, that's what it was; hundreds, thousand of litres – for just a few precious drops. A mincing machine. Muggle mincer. But there's nothing to be done; they had no other possibility.

'I could not understand,' Felsen shook his head. 'It's just beyond my comprehension. All thinkable and non-thinkable magic creatures; all oldest wizarding families of Europe, and not only Europe… And it's still not enough?'

To gather is much harder than to throw away.

One source, one beginning. It is so simple – to return to the beginnings. It is so hard… But they almost succeeded. They were lacking of just one small thing. A single man or thirty thousands another ones instead…

'As I recall,' Felsen began very quietly and somewhat pensively, 'you were ready to give anything in order to find somebody from descendants of the Elder Branch…'

Glass almost felt that his heart missed a bit, and did his best trying to conceal his agitation.

'Wait, Felsen, you – You – You managed to find out something?'

Involuntarily his voice faltered. Felsen just waved his hand.

'Nothing. After that incident in Hogwarts… Do you remember it?'

How could he not remember. Glass recalled his feelings when he saw that article in "The Daily Prophet", which was telling that in the most-known British magic school, in Hogwarts, "Heir of Slytherin" had been caught recently. The article was absurd to excess, of course; but that did not matter, for nothing could be expected from those scribblers… But there might be a true fact under all the nonsense. Just might.

At that day he – for the first time in his life – made a request for Felsen. He needed to know exactly what had happened there. Yes, it was stupid and even ridiculous – but what if?.. Felsen agreed easily, though probably became thoughtful: what reasons did he have when asking for such a favour? So be it. Two days after, Felsen himself contacted with Glass, and, laughing in his sleeve, told him about that supposed "Heir". The entire story was not to be worth beans. Some dull-witted boy, what is more, a half-giant, decided to set free an Acromantula – just to "have a walk" – and, no surprise, the Acromantula in question had had a long walk indeed, truly to his nature. Why the newspapermen decided that this silly boy was non other than the Heir of Slytherin, was a mystery. It could have been a provocation; but Felsen did not think so: it was too stupid even for a provocation. Upon a fair balance, Glass agreed with him and even did not ask Eisgrotte to bring that half-giant boy for tests as he had previously intended.

And still, that incident left an unpleasant aftertaste behind; he could not stop wondering how stupid he had been, to fall a victim to an absurd newspaper-hoax. Felsen, no doubt, began to suspect him: he was not a fool and was able to do simple facts comparison. He for certain understood that this Heir of Slytherin, whatever it is, was extremely important to Glass; and since everyone knew that the only thing he, Jurgen Glass, was interested in was his project, it meant that to have here Slytherin's heir was essential for the success of the project…

Glass was deep in thoughts, deciding what he'd had to do. Had he told Grindelwald, there'd be no doubt that Felsen would be exterminated at once. But he could hide from Grindelwald their main politician's familiarity with the subject and tell Felsen more instead – and, by doing that, to increase their chances of success. Success is never blamed, as everybody knows. Or, rather, it is blamed not too harsh.

He chose the second option. Peculiarities of the magical energy of some old wizard families could possibly improve the power of battle spells that they were inventing in the Laboratories. Thus, a blood of Slytherin's direct descendant would be rather precious for their work. Felsen, having shown an ultimate understanding and given his promise not to tell everyone, had never touch the subject ever since. Till this day.

'You know something, Felsen,' said Glass. 'Do not deny it.'

Felsen shook his head.

'Believe me, Glass. What purpose is in hiding? I have always been open with you.'

Jurgen Glass yet again had tried to decipher Felsen's thoughts – but yet again failed.

'Yes. I've always been open with you,' Felsen repeated. 'And you _have not_.'

Glass remained silent.

'What do you want?' he asked at last.

'I want you to tell me about the _true purpose_ of your project, Glass.'

He would never understand it. What is it for him – just another super-weapon, not more. A universal button; push it – and everything would fall head over heels. But does it matter now, anyway?

'Good. I will tell you.'

Maybe there was a sense in that after all – and most of all now, when everything around them was losing its sense at catastrophic rate.

* * *

_Thank you, and please review!_


	6. In the Library

AN. It's been a long time since I updated - sorry for that. It is harder for me to write than is was before: RL is interferring! And, meanwhile, I'm thinking about changing my writing style; it is too complicated now. The story itself was not supposed to be very funny, though. Maybe, the next one will be different. Something more mainstream. With romance and time travel. We'll see ;)

_StarMirage_, thank you again. You won't let me give up!

**

* * *

****Chapter 6. In the Library.**

_October 1943, Hogwarts_

After such a remarkable conversation with Dippet, Albus Dumbledore found himself in rather ambiguous situation. On the one hand, the Headmaster, though not agreeing with Albus' suspicions openly, at the same time encouraged him to continue his investigation. On the other hand, he made it clear that Albus's findings could possibly make Hogwarts condition even worse, because they might result in the school closure. And, after all, the attacks had stopped, hadn't they?

Probably, the nature of those facts would be enough to prevent a more cautious man from going further. But for Albus, that kind of caution was too similar to cowardice, and thus he could not accept it. The investigation simply _had_ to be done; in that he was sure. The question remained, however, where should he start from.

The freedom of choice allowed by this vague affair was almost frightening. After rather long deliberation, Albus decided to return to the very beginning – and namely, to the original legend about Slytherin's monster and the Chambers of secrets. Never being quite interested in the history of magic, Dumbledore knew this legend only from what others had told, and now he was going to fill that gap in his knowledge.

To his surprise, it appeared to be quite a hard task. The legend, despite being wide-spread, was covered in some sort a veil of secrecy: it seemed that everybody remembered it, but no one was able to retell its contents exactly. Even the most complete sets of works on the subject, such as "Legends and Myths of Post-Arthurian Age" of "Hogwarts, A History: Obscure Materials" had but only a brief mention of the legend, while the forty-volume "A History of Witchcraft in Britain" hadn't even that much. To crown it all, madam Paperton herself, who had been Hogwarts librarian for more than sixty years, failed to help Albus in his search.

With disappointed sigh, Dumbledore shut the huge catalogue and headed for an exit – but then he suddenly noticed the crooked frail figure in the far corner of the library. 'Old Professor Binns!' he thought. 'That's who might help me.'

It was not strange that professor Binns came to Dumbledore's mind only now. Cuthbert Binns was the kind of person who was not usually noticed - or, which is even worse, who was forgotten just after having been noticed. Professor Binns had been teaching the History of magic since Dumbledore was a boy, and now was the oldest staff member save the Headmaster Dippet himself.

'Good afternoon, professor Binns', Dumbledore said, approaching the table where Cuthbert was sitting. 'May I join you?'

'Oh, yes, of course, professor Dumbledore,' said Binns, moving his parchments to make a room for Albus. 'Here, sit down, please.'

Albus threw a brief glance at Binns papers. As far as he could say, they all were notes about some ancient goblin uprisings. Not the subject he was interested in. He sighed and nodded down closer to Binns.

'Forgive me my interrupting your studies, dear professor', he began. 'Could you spare a moment of your time?'

'Well, well, I'll be glad to,' said Bins, still not rising his head from the writings. 'I did not know you were interested in the history of goblin movement, though; it's quite a surprise for me.'

'To say the truth, dear colleague, my interests lay in slightly different field,' said Dumbledore cautiously. 'I'm not even sure whether they are dealing with history at all, and not with some contemporary mystification.'

'Oh,' said Binns and raised his eyes at last. 'Then I'm afraid don't understand how I could be of any use to you, professor Dumbledore. I'll try to help you anyway, of course. Since you mentioned possible mystification, I suggest that you need my expertise of a certain object in your possession?'

'Hmm, it rather considers a particular school relic contributed to Founders Era; the relic, in the very existence of which I'm not sure,' Albus' speak was deliberately evasive.

Binns munched and adjusted his spectacles.

'Very few objects in wizarding world could be traced thus far. Here in Hogwarts we have only two noticeable artefacts, each is believed to have been in Godric Griffyndor possession. It is his famous ruby sword and, of course, the Sorting Hat. But you certainly do not intend to say that some of them might be a fake?'

'Oh, no, of course not, professor Binns. It never came to my mind that there could be something wrong with any of these items. Just imagine – a fake Sorting Hat - what confusion it might have caused! But are you positively sure that those two are the only objects here which belonged to Founders? I assumed there might be something from the other three of them as well, from Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff or Slytherin perhaps…'

'It is very unlikely. Nowadays the Ministry catalogues all notable items, and as far as I remember, none of former Founder's possessions are put into those lists – with the exception of the two items I've mentioned. So, if such items exist, they are in private possession… with the owners who are secretive about this, or we would have known…'

There was a noise behind the nearest shelf: a group of students, probably looking for a book, came too close to them. Dumbledore lowered his voice.

'In facts, it is not as much valuables I'm interested in as documents. Do you know anything about the writings that could have belonged to them? Personal books, some chronicles maybe?'

'Well, there were rumours of some special book of Rowena Ravenclaw, since she is always portrayed as holding a book – but it is a common mistake. It is obvious that her book on those paintings bears purely symbolical meaning, emphasizing the qualities that are valued in Ravenclaw College. But in reality, we are not aware of any books or scripts or other sort of writings attributed to Founders. Or even those written in Hogwarts on that time.'

Dumbledore could not believe what Cuthbert Binns was saying. Hogwarts chronicles were started at times of Foundation and were held without interruption for centuries and now occupied a good half of the school library.

'But the Annals of Hogwarts…'

'The earliest entry in them is dated by eleventh century, which is two hundred years past the Founders time,' interrupted Binns. 'The First Annals were destroyed in the Great fire of 1066. But you obviously know that; it is mentioned in "Hogwarts, a History."… Besides, may I ask why you are interested in this subject, professor Dumbledore?'

Dumbledore slightly blushed. He knew that Binns considered only cold, verifiable facts as the valuable source of information and didn't have respect for myths or vague theories.

'I was trying to find some sources from which this Legend about the Heir of Slytherin and the Chamber of Secrets came,' he admitted at last. 'From what you've told me, it seems quite possible that it might be later invention, created after Founders time.'

To Albus' surprise, Bins laughed; his voice sounded even more cracked than before.

'Sorry, dear colleague, I did not mean to embarrass you. Your conclusion is plausible; in fact, I personally believe that you are right – it seems that the Legend was created at least a century after Slytherin's death. There's not enough evidence to confirm it, however. I did not expect, though, that you were _also_ going to find this Slytherin Chamber after all.'

'I am not even sure it exists,' said Dumbledore, noticing for himself this 'also'.

'There is no proof that it does. The Legend you mentioned, in particular, gives only an indirect reference.'

'I'm afraid I don't quite understand,' Dumbledore frowned, 'Are you saying that the Legend is not about the Chamber of Secrets?'

'Well, if I remember correct, the oldest known sources addressed only the Heir and some great horror that Slytherin had planted in the castle. I'm not sure, though; the text is very vague. The name 'Chamber of Secrets' was introduced much later; presumably, it appeared in the process of constant retelling…'

A book fell from the shelf, hardly missing Binn's head. Those students on the other side seemed to be very careless in their examination of the shelf, and, had Albus more time, he would certainly reprove them: poor Binns was almost get hurt. However, Dumbledore was so anxious to hear the explanation that he chose to ignore the sudden interruption, especially since Cuthbert had not even noticed anything.

'What interests me most of all, Professor Binns, is those oldest known sources. Is there any of them in our library by chance?'

'Hmm, I think there is one. Just recently I worked with that book,' Binns began to search something in his yellowish papers till he exclaimed: 'Yes, here is the reference. Its title is 'Quests and Wonders and the Things weren't meant to believe in'. The book is dated 1670; it's a compound of some insignificant historical anecdotes. I myself was interested in a Tale of Two Goblins, so had not paid much attention to the other stories. But the book is still in the library; it was put into the Restricted Section, though. I wonder why.'

The title did not sound very serious to Dumbledore. Things weren't meant to believe in? What kind of book could it be then? Besides, the mere time when the book was written – seventies of the seventeenth century – was enough to put the reader on his guard and make him to perceive this document with a fairly amount of scepsis. All that was written during that period of time, from 1670 till the beginning of eighties, could not be regarded as reliable source of information. The chaos caused by the Great and Final Parting of wizarding and muggle worlds had changed the life of both those words dramatically; it was the time of utterly impossible, obscure, and sometimes even terrifying events; the time which was contemporarily considered as one of the most grievous and dark ages in the history of British wizarding community. Nobody could be sure what was true and what was not in the documents of this time; and numerous debates of historians from all over the world, despite being very passionate, failed to clarify the subject.

But at least it was something, and Albus contentedly wrote the book title down. It appeared to be quite a useful conversation after all. And who could have imagined that old Professor Binns had been interested in something beyond his goblins! However, there was still one important question that Albus would like to ask before leaving:

'I'm so grateful, dear colleague! You can't even imagine how you've helped me... Oh, and by the way, you have mentioned that I was not the only one looking for this information, haven't you? Could it be possible that somebody else had asked you the same questions that I did?'

Binns smiled: 'Afraid of competition, aren't you? You need not have to worry: it is – '

'Excuse me, professor Dumbledore?'

Dumbledore nearly jumped at the sound of the question: he had failed to notice that they were not alone anymore. Though, as he saw the person who had interrupted them, all his disappointed vanished at once: it was Lenore Lyss, Hufflepuff prefect, a girl so nice and charming that it was simply impossible to become distressed with her presence.

'I'm very sorry, sir, but Headmaster Dippet asked me to remind you that the meeting – '

'Oh, the meeting!..'

Dumbledore completely forgot about today's school council; he was five minutes late already. With a short exclamation, he leaped up from his chair and, having nodded to Binns, almost ran towards library's exit.

* * *

The meeting had turned out to be a complete fiasco for him. 

From the very beginning, Albus was aware that there wouldn't be an easy conversation and that all three of them – Dippet, Merrythought and Albus himself – should be very persuasive in order to soften von Strommen's too dangerous policy regarding the project. He even had considered the possible directions that their discussion could go, and had prepared strong, solid arguments for any of those possible occasions. Each of them was powerful enough to crush down his opponent completely, not giving a single chance to his over-militarized theories. For instance, it was easy to prove that the use of any dark-magic rituals was unnecessary for students; that they should perfectly go without irreversible spells of advanced transfiguration; and that the usage of battle magic should properly be considered before the final decision could be made…

But it appeared that all his preparation had been in vain. Otto von Strommen took the floor first; in a quite everyday and composed tone he informed them that he had already assigned his project themes, and that the students had been already successfully working on them; that all ritual ceremonies, be they dark-magical or not, should be considered as pointless waste of energy and efforts; that his attitude to mass-affecting spells was ambiguous, but he nevertheless believed that some of them were necessary; that potions and basic alchemy he decided to exclude from the project completely (he even managed not to look at Slughorn while saying that part); and at last, that advanced transfiguration, and its branch dealing with essential transformation in particular, he rated very highly, but nevertheless thought that it would be unwise to focus on it – especially since they had the Unforgivables, which allowed to achieve the same goals while being must simpler, faster, more efficient, and - the most important - less energy consuming …

Dumbledore was the first to come to his senses after this 'speech', but could not produce any intelligible objection: all his polished and cogent arguments, so thoroughly prepared, had turned into incoherent pathetic phrases like "Impossible! How could that be? The Unforgivables? But… But…" Dippet and Merrythought said nothing at all; the Headmaster acquired his usual dreamy and thoughtful look, while good old Galatea, full with indignation, seemed to completely lose her gift of speech. Otto von Strommen, smiling graciously, explained to Dumbledore, that the ill fame of Unforgivables in many respects had been exaggerated and overall should be considered as a remnant of Dark Ages; and then added that of all three Unforgivable curses, only Imperius was of interest to them; the other two was useless. After that, perplexed Dumbledore was forced to listen to a rather extensive explanation on the subject; he would obviously have learned many interesting things from it had he got enough strength to be attentive; but alas, only some disordered fragments had remained in his memory.

'The Imperius Curse,' as Albus recalled von Strommen's words, 'is far from that vulgar Crucio and especially from Avada, which is completely unmanageable and thus of little use in any magic battle. They can not even be compared. Imperius – the perfect example of what the purest, clearest magic should be. Only the power of intention, only will; the material objects aren't involved at all. Imperius, when properly cast, could not be detected by any known methods. Could you imagine anything more suitable for our purposes? Its only weakness that it can't be mastered by just anyone – but wasn't it you who insisted on doing with small loses?'

_With small loses._ Those words must have been intended especially for Albus: not without reason von Strommen said them with special contempt. It was very painful to listen to such reproaches. With small loses… Wrong, appalling words. As if the value of human soul could be measured!

Dumbledore went to the library that very evening, despite he still could not come to his senses after his painful defeat at the meeting. As ill luck would have it, all sensible ideas came into his mind only when it all had been over. Dozens of brilliant arguments, one better than the other, were forming in his mind, and Albus could almost see as he would have given a sound scolding to von Strommen… But there was no point in it now, so he forced himself to let them be for the time being. Yes, he had lost today; thus, he should try better in order to win next time.

Madam Paperton, the old librarian, was about to leave: she was closing the numerous cabinets of her heavy oak desk.

'Professor Dumbledore?' she screwed her eyes behind the spectacles. 'Good evening to you. Are you going to order something? It is half past nine already; I'm preparing to leave.'

'We had the meeting today,' Albus said. 'Sorry, but I could not come earlier. You haven't closed the Restricted Section yet?'

Paperton sighed and put the heavy bunch of keys back on the table.

'I'll wait for you, professor,' she mumbled.

'Oh, this is not necessary, madam Paperton. You could leave the keys to me till tomorrow. I might spend quite a long time here…'

The librarian was hesitating. Hogwarts ancient codex forbade giving the keys to anybody, even to the Headmaster himself. Nevertheless, the last librarians use to break this rule quite often; so, after a brief consideration, she chose to agree.

'Very well. Will you return them before breakfast begins? Then I leave them to you. Don't forget the binding spell when you are leaving. And no magic inside, do you remember? Even the simplest spells could harm the tomes here.'

Dumbledore smiled; she was speaking as if he still was a first-year student. Of course, he knew that no magic spells were allowed in the Restricted Section: they could interfere with the old and dangerous magic from the books. There were things in Hogwarts library which nobody would like to fight with.

'Thank you, madam Paperton!' said Albus gratefully and stretched his hand for the keys.

…As soon as the old librarian had closed the door (for a moment she hesitated, as if trying to recall something important), Albus Dumbledore headed for the Restricted Section, the entrance to which was at the farthest end of the room.

The Restricted Section met him with pitch-darkness, and the stagnant air there for some reason smelled of flowers. Albus stopped for a moment, trying to see something in this darkness, and regretted that he had not brought the light. A plain _Lumos_ would have solved the problem, but unfortunately, it was forbidden to use even a charm that simple. Having made several steps forward, he stroke against book-stand and crouched, trying to protect himself from dozens of books that began to fall on his head.

'Just a moment, madam Paperton; I'll bring the light,' a sudden voice from the darkness sounded.

Dumbledore almost jumped: he could not even think that in the room might be somebody else. Though, he calmed down immediately – besides, he _did_ recognize the voice – and answered:

'I wouldn't like to disappoint you, Tom, but I am not madam Paperton. Good evening to you, though. By the way, what are you doing here at this time? And, what is more, in complete darkness?'

Tom Riddle, the best Hogwarts student, was the kind of person who is usually titled 'the School pride', who is adored by all the professors, and who is always held up as an example for his less-successful schoolmates - to their further discontent. The role-model students like him would rather allow themselves to be burned alive than let somebody consider them as rule-breakers. But somehow Dumbledore almost was not surprised to meet Riddle here; it was a strange feeling – as if Albus had already expected him to do something.

'Good evening, professor. We had additional Defence against Dark Arts today – but you are aware that the schedule has changed, aren't you? It seems that now we have to study way into the night in order to work on our projects…' he faltered for a moment, 'And it also seems that madam Paperton forgot to let me out when she was leaving.'

Well, now it was absolutely clear what exactly the old librarian was trying to remember before her departure. Though it was forbidden to leave students in the Restricted Section alone, Albus could easily understand why she made an exception for Riddle: just like the rest of the staff, she almost doted upon the poor talented orphan.

'You are lucky then,' said Dumbledore, 'If not for me, you'd have to stay here overnight,' Albus imagined what kind of night it would be in a place like this, and shivered.

There was a slight rustle in the darkness, and then suddenly the light appeared – it was dim and unsteady, similar to _ignis fatuus_ or will-o'-the-wisp – but at least, now Dumbledore could see something. Tom Riddle was standing much closer to him than Albus had expected, just next to the shelves. The light originated from the small crystal that he boy held in his hands.

'What is this?' Albus asked curiously. 'Looks like the Liquid Light.'

The Liquid Light was quite expensive, especially in the time of war, and such small crystal could cost a fortune.

'Of course it is not the Liquid Light, sir,' the boy answered with a hint of a smile. 'It's just the Cat's Eye.'

'What? The cat's - Ah, you mean the stone! So, you've enchanted it with _Lumos_?'

That was a really good idea, Dumbledore thought; and once again regretted that he himself had come here unprepared.

'It could work that way, sir; but I chose _Oculus Lucidus_ – the spell altering the vision,' answered Riddle. 'Only the owner could see the light then… the others only when he wants them to. You didn't see it when you entered, did you, sir?'

Interesting, why he's worried whether he was seen? Dumbledore threw a brief look at the room but didn't notice anything suspicious.

'Nothing at all,' he answered honestly. 'A pitch-darkness.'

Riddle nodded and turned to the table, gathering his books. For some reason, he was in hurry, and one of the books, pushed by his quick movement, fell from the table. Albus bended down and picked it up.

'On Usage of Unforgivable Curses and Their Derivatives in Modern Practice of Aurors,' he read the title aloud. The author was a certain Alastor Moody, of whom Dumbledore had not heard before. 'And I believed that Aurors were forbidden to use Unforgivables.'

Riddle just shrugged his shoulders indifferently and said nothing. It seemed that the moral aspects of that problem did not interest him much. Quite the opposite of what should have been, especially considering that it was Riddle who had been granted with questionable honour of preparing his graduation project on the Imperius Curse. Dumbledore recalled once again von Strommen's 'with small loses' and sighed.

'Would you be so kind as to leave me one of your crystals, Tom? It seems that I forgot the light.'

'Certainly, sir,' nodded Riddle and held out the lights.

Dumbledore took one; despite being quite bright, the crystal appeared to be very cold and unexpectedly heavy. Albus looked closer, trying to find out how the enchantment had been added; failed to understand it at first, and made the crystal go out and light up several times. Very good job, there's no denying it.

'I'll bring it back tomorrow,' said Albus.

Riddle said nothing again. He was not very talkative at all, nor was his temperament vivid or feelings deep. Not that it was something bad, but after the first encounter with Riddle in the orphanage Albus expected a somewhat different sort of behaviour. In Hogwarts the boy was much more composed than back then; it was as if something had died inside him. Albus wondered why it was so. Riddle always believed himself to be very special; so, maybe as he had managed to prove it, he had nothing to strive for? Pity, if that was true; Dumbledore thought that a really talented person – and there was no doubt that Riddle was extremely talented – just could not be such a mechanical doll.

Dumbledore often questioned himself why he disliked Riddle so much. With the exception of the first, rather unpleasant, impression that they both had of each other, there were no reasons for such attitude. Riddle was a perfect student, probably the most brilliant Hogwarts ever known - and, after all, he was not a bad person. Probably, sometimes too secretive and not very sincere, but, at least, he had not been as arrogant as the majority of other Slytherins. And the other common slytherinish qualities, such as cunning and ambition, were present just moderately, never having forced Riddle to do something utterly indecent or dishonourable. Dumbledore had to admit that even in Hagrid's case Tom behaved not without dignity: he could have chosen just to report that Rubeus had a dangerous pet, but instead he had decided to confront him openly and try to persuade…

But no matter how hard Albus tried to persuade himself, Tom Riddle left in him an impression of something wrong and flawed – as a creature most perfect, but at the same time somehow deprived of its very essence.

'How's your project going?' asked Dumbledore and took another book from the table.

It appeared to be the work of Claudius Slagg-Smogg, a famous historian of the last century, which was entitled "The Great Parting". Albus, having come across this book before, had got through only half of it: unpleasant and too realistic descriptions of barbarities of 1672 were simply loathing.

'Very good, thank you, sir,' Riddle was watching closely as Dumbledore leafed through the pages, and was looking rather nervous.

'Mmm,' nodded Dumbledore, putting Slagg-Smogg aside, and reached out for the next book. 'Ah! "The Irreversible Spells of Higher Transfiguration"!'

That book he wrote himself about ten years ago. His colleagues alchemists, aggrieved with his choice of subject, passed Albus's work over with silence in a rather pointed manner; and the rest of the wizarding scientific society praised him with but two scanty reviews, in which the book was blamed for its impracticality and for over-complexity of the formulas. After such a failure, Dumbledore gave up his alchemic studies for more than five years – partially because of his dissatisfaction with the results, partially because of simple stubbornness – and dedicated his efforts exclusively to transfiguration; so in the course of time he even began to teach it here, at Hogwarts… A fateful book, what to say. He never imagined that someone of his students would have a desire to read it, or at least had known about its existence.

'Something's not right, professor?'

Dumbledore woke up from his memories.

'No, everything is all right, Tom. It is just –' Albus looked at Riddle estimatingly, trying to guess what he'd found in this unknown monograph. The boy answered that look with seemingly empty inexpressive gaze, and Dumbledore immediately lost any intention to ask something.

'Very interesting book,' said Riddle politely and, after a brief silence, added: 'And explanations are very clear and easy to follow'.

Well, _that_ just could not be true. Is he mocking him? Albus winced and bend his head with distrust. How he wished his Legilimency skills were just a bit stronger! But no; it was impossible to use it against a student – even against an unpleasant one, such as Tom Riddle.

'So… May I go, sir?' asked Riddle, visibly feeling uncomfortable.

'Oh, but of course,' said Dumbledore, as if suddenly recollected, 'Go. Good night, Tom. Watch your step at the staircases: it seems that house elves have tried too hard with the blackout.'

'No need to worry; I'm used to it. Good night, sir,' with that words Riddle threw the last (rather regretful) glance at his books and headed for the exit.

Dumbledore waited till the door closed behind the boy and then start his search for 'Quests and Wonders'.

He found the book rather quickly, and immediately was surprised to see that it was somewhat thin: as far as he remembered, library catalogue stated that it had more than a thousand pages. However, having briefly flicked through it, Dumbledore found that the book is seriously damaged. Someone seemed to rip off several dozens of pages, and not long ago. Albus frowned: somehow such vandalism reminded him of recent attacks. He could not say for sure that there was indeed a connection between those two things; but something was telling him that it was quite possible. His suppositions became even stronger as he discovered that the chapter with the Legend had suffered the same fate as the other disappeared pages.

Dumbledore could not overcome his disappointment. And he had hoped that he was close to – not to success, but at least to finding something. Such an unfortunate day; all the time it looked as if someone was trying to stop him. Albus sighed, ordering himself not to become upset. It might have been just coincidence, after all. The pages might have been torn off ages ago. It was still worthwhile to ask Binns about that, though. And about this _other_ person who had been interested in the legend. Pity that it was too late, Albus thought, or he'd go to Binns at once.

Anyway, better take counsel with your pillow now. Of course, tomorrow morning would break this series of misfortunes. Having that in mind, Albus Dumbledore pocketed the light crystal and departed.

* * *

But the first thing Dumbledore got to know when he'd entered the Great Hall the next day, was that Professor Binns, the old history of magic teacher, had died in his sleep this very morning, while sitting in front of the staff room fire.

* * *

_As always - thank you, my not numerous but faithful readers!_


	7. Too Long a Holiday

**Author's Notes**

BOOK 7 COMPLIANCY QUESTION. MINOR SPOILER AHEAD!

I was far from expecting that some of book 7 contents could possibly make my fic AU. After all, Dumbledore vs. Grindelwald was such a periphery of HP-fandom! Well, book 7 is out... and it appears now that I was wrong. Nothing critical happened, though: luckily, none of my main ideas have become irrelevant because of it. My opinion on the DH-book is somewhat ambiguous, but it _is_ a canon, no matter what I think. I still need time to come to terms with new Dumbledore portrayal – but, in general, I believe that I could continue to write this story _and_ keep it compatible with book 7; at least, when it considers mere facts. I'll have to make but one small change to what has already been written – precisely, to change Grindelwald first name; that is all.

END OF SPOILER

As this has been resolved, I proceed to my traditional thanks and answers:

_Star Mirage & ShadowDweller:_ thank you for your constant support! And about the question you've asked:

_1. Books._ Those books that Tom read were all dealing with a certain theme: each described some very powerfull destructive spells. Dumbledore's book was no exception. The author himself might have seen his work as purely theoretical exercise (which he did), but for Tom Riddle it was in the first place a very much practical guide on complex irreversible curses.

_2. Story length._ I have planned 26 chapters+epilogue at the moment. That's why the story is slow; I need to define initial setting. BTW, epilogue is already written ;)

Please enjoy the next chapter; it's about Grindelwald's fellows. All remaining introductions except the very last one (Grindelwald himself) are made here.

**

* * *

****Chapter 7. Too Long a Holiday**

_November__ 1944, Bernese Alps, Jungfrau region._

_Lorraine__ Delacour _

What feelings had Lorraine Delacour evoked in those around her? Was it admiration? Adoration? Envy? Or love, perhaps? Yes, it was all of the above; she got used to it long ago and didn't pay attention anymore.

She was a beauty. Not because of some peculiar virtues or special tricks – but simply because that was her nature. It just could not be otherwise.

A strange thought once came into her mind – what if somewhere in the farthest part of the Universe a planet existed, whose inhabitants would consider any human being as a creation of incomparable, impossible beauty? Just because it _is _a human being, a species called Homo sapiens. She was in the same situation. She was beautiful because and only because she was a veela. If so, what she had to be proud of? What person should be proud of just being a Homo sapiens?

She had been often told that she was beautiful; but her admirers didn't know that their compliments had a completely different meaning for her. The words "she is a beauty" and "she is a veela" was equivalent. Those numerous worshippers just took the feature of her kin for individual merit, and that is all.

There's different sorts of beauty. A beauty of youth, a beauty of deed, a beauty of soul. Her beauty was like a mask; only, unlike the typical carnival masks, it was impossible to take off. Behind this mask, forever stuck to her face, no one could see the real her. She had long ago resigned herself to it: people would never be able to see the true herself. They were blinded by her looks; they were stopped short; their thoughts moving in a only one rather predictable direction. Those thoughts were not obviously scabrous, but always dull and shallow, or childishly naïve at best.

So she was musing, sitting at the piano in one of the pompous drawing-rooms of Finsteraar Castle, the ancestral domain of Wald family, and touching the piano keys incoherently in a rhythm of her melancholy thoughts. The numerous servants, both human and elves, that had been anticipating her magnificent performance, soon became disappointed and stopped paying attention. Only one listener remained in the room, and Lorraine sighed: oh, how predictable it was.

Tristan Wald, a naïve spoilt child, was one of those unfortunate who had seen her as incarnation of their dreams. She thought about telling him that she could have been his mother – and even grandmother; and that he was fooling himself if we was trying to find some sort of 'immortal ideal love' in the place where it simply could not have existed. But on the second thought she decided against it. It would have been too harsh; and she was a guest here… A paid guest, however. She was renowned as a pianist and singer; a woman of fashion; a star of the society. For many years she had been invited to numerous houses, mansions and castles, playing her role as a sort of civilized entertainment for wizarding high-society. She obviously knew how to behave. She could play her life no worse than she played a piano piece. Anyway, her visit here would not last longer than a few days; and her politeness would not make things worse. So be it. The boy's admiration had not bothered her yet; besides, he was not dissolute or impudent, and conducted himself rather decently.

'Madam… Mademoiselle Delacour,' he began confusingly, 'could you please play something for me?'

Poor boy. He must have repeated this simple request for several times before he dared to say it aloud. Lorraine gave him an encouraging smile – but to no purpose, because Tristan became completely embarrassed.

'And what would you like to hear, monsieur Wald?'

'Monsieur Wald…' he smiled awkwardly. 'It sounds so stupid. Please, call me Tristan.'

She laughed: it was a touching sight, indeed. Better stop, however; he may be offended by it.

'As you wish, _Tristan_. It's a beautiful name from a beautiful legend. So, what shall I perform?

'Something to your taste, mademoiselle Delacour.'

'Lorraine.'

'Lorraine,' he nodded like a lamb.

She thought for a moment, and then confidently put her hands on the piano keys. Lorraine Delacour was playing Solveig's Song, a sad and solemn melody, one of her favourites.

_Tristan Wald_

As Tristan Wald listened to Lorraine Delacour's singing, his eyes became full with tears. He shook his head angrily: he would not have stood if she had taken him for a foolish sentimental boy. They all thought that he was. They all believed him to be useless, literary a nobody.

The only person who loved him was his mother, but she died very early; Tristan was only five then – as much as little Aby was at the moment. He didn't cry then, though. The fuss and ordinariness of the funeral had made all his feelings worthless. He hid in the attic in the old castle wing and spent all day there, till he was found by Fraulein Smiph who forced him to change for the ceremony… The ceremony. Just a performance. A funeral or a wedding – they all were the same; they all were full of lies and pretending. And don't you even dare to pretend worse than any other or, Merlin forbid, to reveal your true feelings instead of following the assigned role. Don't even think of it.

A couple of years ago he liked to walk down to the valley and watch muggle people in the town there. They all seemed to him so true, so open, so frank… Simple muggles they were, despised by all up there, by all those pompous dwellers of high society soirées and receptions. Aurora Wald, Baron Wald's second wife and Tristan's first stepmother, had been, undoubtedly, one of the brightest stars of that brilliant society. Wherever she appeared, everybody's attention was pointed exceptionally to her; they all were watching only her, listened only to her, no matter how stupid and vulgar her sayings were. She was considered a beauty. She truly was a beauty, Tristan corrected himself, no doubt in that. He simply detested her; all her loathsome tricks and smiles, and especially her disgusting silver voice. Her mind was full with treasures, titles and new frocks; she paid no more attention to her daughter than to her lap-dog – oh, she might pet her from time to time, and that's it. Her appetites were worthy of crocodile, and even such a soft person as his father could not hold it in the end, and started to object… Ha, as if she had reckoned with him. He thought of him only as of an excuse letting her to name herself "Baroness Wald".

Such a beautiful voice Lorraine has; deep, passionate, calling, carrying him away…

He wished he had been carried away from this place. Tristan smiled to himself – what a peculiar thing, indeed, – he had everything one could only wish, and yet was complaining. Such a brat, as they said. Ivonne, she was thinking precisely that. Cunning, acrimonious pretty with hungry eyes – one glance only – and all them were counted, all persons, all things, to the least knut, how much they were. She belonged to that sort of people who thought that they had forged their destiny themselves and thus considered themselves right to drag through the mud all others who were less fortunate. Well, she was not that evil, but nevertheless – she stank of that greed which only beggars could possess. Her feeble attempts to befriend him he rejected completely and even rather rudely, but at least she left him alone. With little Aby she had no luck either: the girl may be only five, but she probably was well aware what that "new mommy" was worth.

Had he known his own mother better, he might have seen that she was no different from all of them; who knows? She might be an empty-headed beauty in pretentious dress; or grasping intriguer with a calculating machine instead of her heart; or prudish cold-blooded bore – just like this Catherine, Felsen's wife… Silent all the time, her thin lips stiffened with half-smile – the very first indication of a proper lady. Only that proper ladies weren't watching the hosts with such deadly calculating look when they believed that nobody's paying attention. Somehow she reminded Tristan of this Englishman, Potter, who was never smiling openly and always wore black. What an obnoxious fellow: a cold, frozen glance; ashen like a dead man. Probably, they were all the same there, in England – bleak and pallid from constant rains and fogs. This Potter was almost a boy, maybe even younger than Tristan himself, but he acted as if the whole Universe lay at his feet. Just another one of those brilliant scoundrels that formed so called 'inner circle' of any society; a circle consisted entirely of liars and hypocrites: oh, Tristan was sure that Potter would certainly feel at home among them.

He had never heard a single word of reproach from his father, but Tristan knew that in his heart he believed his son to be a loser. Not for nothing he constantly praised that Potter, as if trying to emphasize his son's uselessness. "Just think of it! He is so young, and yet has managed -" Oh yea. He had brilliant prospects ahead of him, that nice and charming boy; oh, such a brilliant prospects… So young, and so talented. He'd achieved everything with his own strength, with his own brains, quite unlike that complete nonentity, Baron Wald's son. Here it is, a perfection of their universe. Let everybody look: Traitors with cold hearts. Strange, don't you think: somehow with all the ahs! and ohs! all those people had absolutely forgot that this "talented and brilliant" Potter was nothing but a common traitor. He betrayed once; he'll betray again. Mendacity and meanness are not qualities of just a solitary action, but of an entire human soul.

Most of all, Tristan Wald detested traitors.

_Honour__able Ladies_

While Tristan Wald and Lorraine Delacour occupied the north-wing drawing room, a society no less spectacular gathered in the south-wing one. It consisted merely of ladies and for that reason might be considered as not so interesting, but nevertheless, it provided a sufficient material for a supposed observer.

Octavia Eisgrotte was playing solitaire; Catherine Felsen was reading a book which she had taken off the shelf here, in the drawing-room; and Ivonne Wald was just sitting on the couch, ready to keep the ball of conversation rolling when necessary.

'Here it goes, king of hearts, to the diamonds; and then there is that eight of spades… So you are telling, my dear Ivonne, that the signing of that treaty does not disturb you, not in the least?'

'Oh, Frau Octavia, you know better than me how many treaties there have been already. All of them had been broken even before the ink on them had time to dry. And, besides, I don't believe in the very possibility of any serious negotiations with Russians. They are just – '

'Why, my dear, you are too harsh there… And where shall I put that jack of clubs, I wonder?'

It was a rhetorical question. Octavia's hand with enormous bracelet, adorned with precious stones, hanged over the table at pause.

'Would you like another cup of coffee, Frau Felsen?'

'No, thank you.'

Quiet rustling of pages and silence; and Ivonne clearly perceived tension in that briefness. Had she said something inappropriate?

'I didn't mean to be hash, my dear Octavia. I'm just trying to say that…'

Catherine rose her light-blue eyes from the book and looked at Baroness Wald very coldly. Ivonne silenced on the instant, and suddenly recalled with useless vexation that Catherine Felsen was Russian. What an _inconvenience._

'But you, Frau Felsen, certainly know what the situation with this treaty is,' Ivonne gave her a timid smile, trying to redress a wrong.

Catherine put her book aside and smiled in response.

'Klaas is a rather secretive person, my dear; so, I'm afraid that I know scarcely more than you do…'

No doubt, "scarcely more". Ivonne was sure that Felsen long ago prepared shelter for his precious diplomatic bacon in case if something serious began.

'But the direct consequence of that treaty – and not a pleasant one for us, milady Ivonne – is the sad fact that neither Frau Eisgrotte, nor I can return home at the moment.'

'Oh, I assure you that I had no intention of leaving so soon,' Octavia Eisgrotte answered immediately. 'To spend several weeks in mountains, in such a beautiful, peaceful place – what could have been better? If, of course, our charming hosts would let us to stay,' and she cast a very meaningful glance at Ivonne.

'But of course!' she roused herself at once, regretting of her omission. 'You are welcomed to stay as long as you wish. We will be very pleased.'

Probably, this invitation sounded not quite open-hearted, but – _how unfortunately!_ – those honourable ladies were not in the position to choose. But still, Ivonne was rather surprised: how could some sheet of paper have made such a difference? Upon a short hesitation, she decided to ask Catherine Felsen about it:

'Forgive my ignorance, dear Catherine – but could you please explain me what this treaty is about? If I understand you right, it is more than mere formality… What's changed?'

But it was Octavia who answered instead of Frau Felsen:

'It is in the air, my dear. The air is the essence, you know. What that treaty, pact, memorandum or what-is-it is worthy by itself? Nothing. It is a mere fiction. No more than that,' she grabbed ace of diamond from the table and waved it before Ivonne's face. 'But when people are starting to believe in that fiction – _then_ it becomes real. And precisely that's happening now,' Octavia put the card back absentmindedly, but, to Ivonne's delight, misplaced it. 'Now they _really_ intend to come to an agreement, the Russians and the official England. That's made all the difference… What? I've mistaken again? But no way I'll try this solitaire the third time!'

'We have clear evidence, dear Ivonne, that they are taking this treaty very seriously,' smiled Catherine politely. 'Whether they believe in it, I don't know, but at least they have been fulfilling all precedent conditions, which haven't happened ever before.'

'So it means… That they will be acting together? Against us?'

'They have been already,' Catherine repeated patiently. 'Aren't you reading their newspapers?'

Ivonne swallowed nervously: she never read foreign newspapers. Nor did she often read native ones: what she had seen or heard was quite enough to have built her own opinion.

'And your belongings… your mansions… are they already – ?'

'No, of course they are not, my dear,' said Frau Octavia complacently, shuffling the cards.

'Not _yet,_' said Catherine almost inaudibly, as if speaking with herself. 'Not yet.'

There definitely was a considerable problem to think about. It seemed that their situation was not so stable as Ivonne had imagined from the words of her husband. Interesting, did they have so little chance of success?

'But you need not be afraid, dear Ivonne,' Octavia Eisgrotte condescended to her. 'Of course we are not going just to sit and wait till we have been slaughtered like pigs. I am certain that Doctor Glass has a couple of aces up his sleeve. And your husband, dear Catherine, is not such a simpleton either. Or is he?'

Catherine Felsen produced a strained smile, not putting much effort into concealing her enmity. Ivonne understood her well: Frau Eisgrotte's tactlessness was truly annoying. A couple of aces up his sleeve… Such a great fortune-teller, _indeed._

'Oh, I completely forgot to mention, dear Octavia,' said Ivonne with innocent smile, 'there is no king of spades in this pack. Aby took it this morning.'

Secretly enjoying the look of Frau Eisgrotte's face, Ivonne quickly apologized and departed from the drawing room. It was inappropriate to leave her guests in that manner, but she did not care. After all, they were not guests anymore. They were fugitives.

* * *

_Thank you for reading! Reviews are always appreciated!_


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